“So,” said Sam, “his temper lives up to its reputation?”
“Well,” said Todd, “his ulcers have not gotten any better, they cause him much pain. His diligence in fitting her out has been amazing. He knows the difficulty you had with carrying enough water in the President, and he has increased water carrying to fifty-four thousand gallons.”
“Really, how?”
Todd shrugged. “Well, he saw no point to carrying rations for six months and water for only three, so he converted two of the smaller bread rooms for water casks. Many other details. He had the remaining bread rooms lined with tin to try and seal the vermin out. How is that for an idea? Biscuits with no worms! Time will tell whether that succeeds.”
Bliven nodded. “Still, he is not the senior captain. How did he get the command?”
“They tried to bring Dale back,” said Todd, “but now he demanded that they create a rank of admiral for him. That was impossible, of course. Then there is Morris, but he is being relieved of command and won’t be allowed near a ship ever again. Rodgers is senior, but they want somebody who will get in there and fight and settle this thing. Preble certainly made the most of his dinner with the president, won his confidence completely.”
“Well,” said Bliven doubtfully, “Commodore Rodgers may have something to say about that once we get to Barbary.”
Todd smiled. “Well, Preble has been cautioned to be diplomatic in his assumption of command. One idea is to leave Rodgers in command of two ships, so he can still be considered a commodore, and detach him for his own operations.” He shook his head. “Such delicate feelings to have to accommodate.”
Bliven chuckled. “Accommodate the commodores. The words probably come from the same root.”
“So is Preble truly half-mad?” asked Sam. The man’s temper, and his ferocity, were a legend, and the apprehension registered on his face.
“Oh, he’s not as bad as that. He is a hard man,” Todd allowed, “but fair. One measure of his success is he has let his reputation for hot temper spread before him so that it is only seldom tested, at least by the men under his command. When it is, be on your guard. That fellow Ayscough on his last cruise disliked mutton and poisoned the ship’s sheep. He was discovered when he was drunk and attempted to desert. Preble had him flogged through the squadron, a hundred and thirty-six lashes.”
“My God,” said Sam. “It is a wonder it did not kill him.”
“No, it was spread out over a month, to let one round heal before the next. That is not typical. Only thrice have I ever read of Preble meting out lashes to a sailor.”
“Thank God,” said Bliven.
“But I advise you, if you find yourself crossways with him, if you have done something for which you are culpable, own up to it and accept the responsibility. That is the surest way to his favor. He hates nothing in the world more than sitting in a court-martial. He believes in rehabilitation. If you accept his personal and informal verdict, I assure you it will be more lenient. If you ever exercise your right to demand a court-martial, you shall have it, but he will bear the whole broadside of the law on you.”
Bliven and Sam looked at each other. “We understand,” said Sam.
“Now,” said Todd, “it is hard to judge how long you will be here before you sortie. We know that things in the Mediterranean are reaching a crisis, and we are urged to haste in getting a new squadron ready.” He paused. “Have you heard about the New York?”
Sam and Bliven looked at each other blankly. “We have not,” said Bliven.
“Some spoiled powder was being transferred from the filling room to the bosun’s storeroom. Some lunatic left a candle burning while he went to retrieve something and the powder flashed, which set off a store of cartridges. Fourteen men were killed, the ship was badly burnt, nearly all the stores destroyed. It will take weeks to fit her out again.”
“How awful!” said Bliven.
“And Morris himself—” Todd stopped and shook his head. “It is not for me to say.”
“What?” urged Bliven. “We won’t pass it further.”
“Very well, then, in confidence, he has made a most famous disaster of everything. At one point, he was patrolling off Tripoli in the Constellation, a mile offshore, when a Tripolitan pirate ship brought in the brig Franklin as a captive. Morris himself had assured the captain of the Franklin that he was in no danger, and then when his ship was taken, they passed into Tripoli harbor right under the guns of the Constellation, and Morris did nothing! And then when he pressed the other ships of his squadron for greater action, what did they do? John Adams overhauled and boarded the Meshuda, which was flying the Moroccan flag but was carrying weapons and contraband bound for Tripoli. So they took the Meshuda, and now the emperor of Morocco is demanding reparations or he will join the war.”
“Wait, please.” Bliven held up a hand. “Is that the Meshuda that was the Tripolitan brig, twenty-eight guns, that Chesapeake bottled up in Gibraltar when we were there?”
“The same. You do not know that story? Ha! Poor Barron sailed back and forth at Gibraltar for months, waiting on her to come out—never knowing that the admiral and his officers abandoned the ship and tiptoed their way back to Tripoli. Then there was a fast and mysterious exchange of papers. Tripoli sold her to Morocco, who is neutral, so we had no more right to blockade her. Dale and Barron were fit to be tied at having to let her go. Then Morris had to go to Tunis. The Enterprise, in her zeal, took a prize ship, except she proved to be Tunisian, not Tripolitan. Morris had a quarrel with the bashaw there and turned his back on him as he left, in consequence of which he and his first lieutenant spent three days in jail before the consul bailed them out—with twenty-three thousand good dollars, thank you very much—and had to give the Tunisians their ship back. And then Morris did the same damn thing in Algiers. There are over a hundred Americans rotting in the bagnios in Algiers, but he never even landed. He went on to Tripoli and tried his hand at negotiating with the bashaw, who now wants two hundred thousand dollars in cash plus twenty thousand a year in tribute. Morris pretty well offered him pocket change and left—he went to Malta, to attend the birth of his son, do you believe it? So in a year, he has got us probably in war with all four Berber states instead of just Tripoli, all the consuls are screaming for his removal, and something dispositive must happen soon.”
“Well,” Bliven sighed, “I am glad you are not the one to say.”
They laughed, and Todd continued, “They were able to talk Preble into command by giving him more small ships, of the kind that can follow the corsairs inshore. He will have the Constitution and the Philadelphia for their firepower, but the others—Siren and Argus, and Nautilus and Vixen—none of them have more than sixteen guns. They can get into shallow water and flush the villains out. Enterprise will be there already.”
“Will Mr. Sterett be in command of one of them?” asked Bliven.
“No.” Todd hesitated. “In fact, Mr. Sterett has ended his connection with the navy. There was a dispute about a promotion; he resigned rather abruptly and has gone into the merchant service.”
“Really?” Bliven was surprised, but only mildly. “He is a fighter and his abilities will be wanted—but he always was a stickler for his prerogatives.” He did some quick calculating. “That is two frigates, and five brigs and schooners.”
“More frigates, too,” said Todd, “if we can round them up. Adams and John Adams will likely stay on station, and New York. That will be a very respectable force.”
“I should say so!” said Bliven, almost with a gasp. “If Dale had had such a squadron, we would have finished the job the first time ’round, and not be going back now.”
“I take your point,” said Todd. “But the government has seen the light now. The new squadron will sail as each ship is ready for sea. It is too early to know exactly when each will sail, all depends upon finding enough damned crewmen.”
Bliven nodded. It was the same old obstacle. He and Sam lugged their sea bags down the quay. “That is all very remarkable,” said Sam. “Do you think Dale really demanded to be made an admiral?”
“It’s hard to say,” answered Bliven. “I imagine he was just trying to make them go away. But perhaps the power got to him, after all. He always did have a short fuse.”
Their excitement grew as the Constitution loomed larger and higher, the closer they approached. They knew her instantly from her figurehead of a club-wielding Hercules, a full seven feet tall—an oddly appropriate guardian of the ship, notwithstanding one usually thought of figureheads as feminine totems. This vessel’s size and strength pled a masculine case. She rode high in the water, empty yet, showing two feet of new copper plating above the waterline.
They ascended the gangplank and took a few steps onto the spar deck.
“Stop,” said Bliven. He did not need to add that he wanted a moment to take in the majesty of this new surrounding, for his gaze carried far up into the white oak masts.
“God Almighty,” whispered Sam. There were massive fighting tops on all three masts, perched directly above the courses, fifty feet above the deck. Ratlines ascended from both port and starboard railings to the fighting tops, which were broad enough that more ratlines extended up another thirty feet from there to the crow’s nests above the topsails. And yet above that she was rigged for topgallants and royals, and skypoles yet above those on the fore and main masts.
“Two hundred twenty feet,” said a cultured, high-pitched voice behind them.
Sam and Bliven lowered their gaze. “Beg pardon?”
“The mainmast is two hundred twenty feet tall.” The man was obviously an officer but somewhat informally dressed, and he pointed an index finger at his right temple. “I thought you must be wondering.” He held out his hand in greeting. “Edward Cutbush, ship’s surgeon.” He turned around suddenly. “You, there! You two fellows, take these sea bags below to the wardroom, if you please.”
Cutbush seemed to be in his early thirties and a picture of health, fastidiously clean, with an energetic face that seemed small only because his head was so large. Sam and Bliven introduced themselves. Bliven was amused that the surgeon should open their acquaintance in such a way. “You actually know the dimensions?”
“Two hundred seven feet from Hercules up there back to taffrail, plus another hundred feet for the bowsprit. Just under sixteen hundred tons. She sets almost an acre of sail, just over an acre when the stuns’ls are set. Come, let me show you to your berths.” Before they reached the ladder he added, “She is forty-three feet in the beam and draws twenty-two feet on average. Not a great sailer, though; she rolls like the very devil, and she’s a wet ship forward; more than one man’s been given a shower-bath while crapping in the head.”
Twin ladders sank down from the ship’s waist. Bliven looked up again; an acre of sail, it must be like being driven by a cloud. He took in the neat ranks of eighteen-pounders before descending, and on the gun deck, the equally tidy ranks of twenty-fours before Cutbush led them farther down to the berth deck, thence aft to the wardroom, which was separated from the chaos of the berth deck by a wooden screen. “Pray be seated,” he said, and he indicated a long mahogany dining table with a dozen chairs around which the wardroom was organized. “It is morning yet, will you take coffee?”
Bliven and Sam exchanged looks of astonishment before accepting. Their sea bags lay against the far bulkhead.
Cutbush approached a sideboard of mahogany matching the table and removed three china cups, white, handsomely patterned in red and blue, from a tray. He opened the lid of a generous urn of chased silver, and on seeing it still part full, and steam rising, he held each cup in turn under the spigot. He set the cups before them, then returned with his own, and a small pitcher. “Here is milk, if you like”—he leaned down the table and scooted toward them a porcelain bowl that matched the cups—“and sugar.”
Both took a little milk; Sam added a spoon of sugar. “My word,” said Sam. “If this is fighting a war, include me, I pray you.”
“Ha!” Cutbush was unexpectedly merry, for a surgeon. “There is less luxury during action, I can assure you.” That might be, thought Bliven, but it would not seem so to the sailors outside. The top half of the wooden screen that segregated officers from men was a row of lathe-turned wooden spindles, decorative to be sure, yet allowing the officers to keep an eye on what might be transpiring down the more than hundred feet of hammocks. They also provided a window for the men to look in, at the mahogany furniture and sideboard and paintings and carafes of drink that were sure not to be watery grog. Considering the origins of most of those sailors, there was little wonder why officers so often resorted to the lash.
Lining the wardroom both port and starboard were a series of doors, with not more than two feet between each one, as though it were a file of closets. “Those are the officers’ berths.” Cutbush pointed. “Line officers, lieutenants, and warrant officers, behind you.” He indicated behind himself. “Staff officers—surgeon, chaplain, purser, and the like—on this side. Mine is just there.” He pointed to the door most forward, next to the open space of the berth deck. “Officers’ head through there.” He indicated a door in the port corner of the bulkhead. “The clerk will be along to assign your berths.”
“We have one each to himself?” Bliven asked in surprise.
“Hold your celebration until you see for yourself how tiny they are. You may be wishing for company before long.”
“Not I,” said Bliven. “I will accept any privacy, with thanks.”
“Where are you boys from?” asked the doctor.
“I am from Connecticut. Mr. Bandy is from South Carolina.”
“That represents quite a disparity.”
“A gulf that we must occasionally bridge,” said Sam.
“We served together on the Enterprise,” said Bliven. “Quite a stroke of good fortune that we are assigned to the Constitution together.”
Cutbush shook his head. “Not many accidents in the navy, my boy. Are you not the two midshipmen who helped take that pirate ship, what, near two years ago? Someone probably noticed how you served well together. Other factors being equal, they would want to keep you together.”
“To reward us or punish us?” wondered Sam; he and Bliven smirked at each other.
“And you, Doctor?” asked Bliven. “Where are you from?”
“Philadelphia, although I am in the navy so long now I sometimes forget.”
Bliven pointed to Cutbush’s wedding ring. “You are married. Have you children?”
“Two, yes, and a third on the way.”
Sam elbowed Bliven in the side. “My friend here has a young lady in Connecticut who is worried whether if they marry they will have any time together. It will be good news to her that you have been able to start a family.”
“We manage.” Cutbush smiled. “We manage. Then, too, we find that absence does help our hearts to grow fonder.”
The ship’s clerk, a tired-looking middle-aged officer named Johnson, arrived and introduced himself. He entered his small office, abaft the bulkhead on the starboard side, and emerged with two precut pieces of thin cardboard, carefully inked in handsome cursive: Mr. Putnam and Mr. Bandy. These he fitted into small wooden sleeves by the doors of the last two berths, port side. “I trust you will find these satisfactory. If you don’t, you cannot do better, as they are all the same.”
“Certainly they shall serve admirably,” said Bliven.
“If I may suggest, stow your bags in your berths. The commodore will see you now.”
Cutbush retired to his cabin. “When you return, I will give you the grand tour.”
Johnson led them up the after ladder; the gun deck was better lit that the berth deck, for the hatches were open up to the spar deck. The commodore’s cabin at the
stern was the brightest space belowdecks, illumined by the bank of enormous windows that mark the stern shear of any frigate. Johnson knocked twice rapidly on the cabin’s door.
“Enter!” a gruff voice called from within. Johnson opened the door and the light came flooding into the after section of the gun deck.
“Lieutenants Bandy and Putnam reporting, sir.”
“Show them in.”
By the time they entered, Preble had risen and come around his desk. “Gentlemen.” They exchanged salutes.
Bliven noted that he stood with his feet wider apart than his shoulders, the sure mark of a man accustomed to keeping his balance in a seaway; often he forgot to assume a less abrupt posture when it wasn’t needed. “Good morning, Commodore.”
Preble reassumed his chair gingerly, as though he were in pain, and motioned them to take two mate’s chairs opposite his desk. He was in his early forties, stocky but muscular, his hair short and brown with a tint of red. He was balding from the forehead back, which he masked somewhat by combing his hair forward. “Are you settling in well?”
“Yes, sir, Dr. Cutbush has made us feel quite at home,” said Bliven. He noticed that as Preble listened, he cocked his head to the right side, presenting his left ear. He assumed that it must be because Preble was hard of hearing in his right ear, but it gave him the appearance of doubting what he was being told.
“Ah, Cutbush,” Preble said in an approving way. “Treat him well; he is the best man in this ship’s company. He won’t tell you this himself, but when the navy was reduced after the Quasi-War, he was one of only four full surgeons retained in the service. He is indispensable. Most of the ships get by with surgeons’ mates and barbers and meat cutters.”
The Shores of Tripoli Page 15
