“Prime!” Each gun captain removed the limp, heavy apron from his gun’s touchhole, unslung his hollowed and polished cow’s horn, and removed the plug at the narrow end. He probed the touchhole again with the priming wire, this time piercing the cloth of the cartridge. The priming powder was of double the fineness of the gunpowder in the cartridge. The more fine particles that could be gotten into the touchholes, the greater certainty of the fire penetrating the cartridge for a good discharge. Having filled the touchholes, they poured an amount extra of powder into the shallow pan next to it, shielding it from the wind as they first stoppered their horn, and then bruised the exposed powder with the rounded end of the horn—not too harshly lest the whole charge go off prematurely. This was one operation that could be trusted only to the experienced gun captains. Having done it, they laid the aprons back over the touchholes and pans to keep wind off them.
“Point your guns!” Again the breeches were crowed up and the quoins removed, allowing the guns to nest down in their natural ten degrees of elevation. All four of the crew took up the ropes that had been threaded through the tackle anchored in the railing, and in heaving together ran the gun out until the fore of the carriage butted against the frame of the gunport. Three of the crew cast the lines out straight behind the gun so they wouldn’t become fouled in the snap of its recoil, and all stood well aside, for the unstoppable recoil of a three-thousand-pound gun would knock a man to midships, injury certain, death quite possible. At the same time the gunner snatched his linstock from its notch on the tub and crouched near the breech, downwind and interposing his body between the gun and the match, puffing on it gently to keep the fire fresh and blow away any ash.
With the wind and swell coming from astern, the ship rolled very little; it would not be difficult to judge the range of a shot.
“Number One port gun, fire!” bellowed Bliven as he moved several steps toward the stern so the smoke would not obscure his vision of where the ball landed.
The gunner spun around smartly, touching his match to the pan. There was a small whoosh of flame, which as it entered the touchhole became a fountain of sparks shooting a foot into the air, some falling, glowing until they expired in the thin sheen of water on the deck. When the fire reached home in the cartridge, the report hit them like someone slapping them on both ears simultaneously. There was a sheet of flame, and smoke jetted from the muzzle for more than twenty feet before slowing and spreading out, leaving a perfect round smoke ring to hang lazily in the air. The ropes spun through the tackles as the gun and carriage backed six feet out of the port in less than a second.
“Mark it!” said Preble excitedly, and all eyes scanned the waves. A second later there rose a shower of water as the ball clipped the top of a swell and then splashed thrice more, like a pebble skipping across a pond.
“I make it eight hundred yards, sir,” said Bliven.
“I agree.” Preble nodded. That was exactly the range prescribed for a twelve-pounder at normal elevation; the powder in that cartridge, at least, was satisfactory. “That is very well.”
“Sponge your gun,” ordered Bliven, and then nodded at Israel, who tried to infuse his voice with as much authority as he could. “Number One starboard gun, fire!”
Bliven well knew that when they were in a zone of action, they would be cruising with the guns already loaded. The sequence would be somewhat different, and the gun captains would have to satisfy themselves that the cartridges already in the guns were dry and usable. They repeated the drill for each gun in the twelve-pounder battery, leaving Preble satisfied that they were ready for action.
“Mr. Israel,” said Preble, once the tompions were replaced and the guns secured.
“Sir?”
“Please convey my compliments to Lieutenant Young, and tell him we are ready for him to exercise the eighteen-pounders.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Putnam.”
“Sir?”
“That was very well. I want you to reposition your aft two guns as stern chasers. I will send you the carpenter, he will do everything necessary to the taffrail—eyebolts, all that.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Then rejoin us for the remainder of the drill. I want to work you up to competency on the large guns as well.”
“Aye, sir, thank you.”
They repeated the drill through the waist of the spar deck, with the differences that each gun required a crew of six to handle, and had a range of a thousand yards. They repeated the drill yet again with the long twenty-fours on the gun deck, each of which needed a crew of ten to heave the four-ton assembly of gun and carriage, and a lookout in the maintop to see the balls splash a full twelve hundred yards from the ship. The entire morning left Bliven’s ears ringing; no wonder, he thought, that so many old sailors were hard of hearing. When all was done, Preble pronounced his satisfaction on the quarterdeck and said, “Captain’s table this evening, gentlemen. Mr. Putnam”—he pulled him a little aside—“I wonder if you will supply me with a book.”
“Gladly, sir, if I have anything that will interest you.”
“History, perhaps, but something not tedious?”
10.
PREBLE’S BOYS
September 1803
It was immediately after the second dog watch, the time when the majority of the crew spread their tarpaulins on the berth deck and tucked into their main meal, which this day included cheese, which was fresh, for they were just out of port, and rice and peas, which were dried but had had no chance to mold or spoil, that the lieutenants gathered in the wardroom in their dress uniforms, joined by Dr. Cutbush and the purser, whom they had quickly learned to rely on to supply not just cocoa and brandy but needles and thread to repair their uniforms, precious soap, and even swatches of lambskin with the wool attached, for their use in the officers’ privy. None of the junior officers had seen his storeroom on the orlop deck, the key to which was a carefully guarded treasure that never left his possession, but they all determined that when the captain is a gentleman, his purser must learn every resource to supply him, and that was to their benefit as well. There was no charity in it, however, for the purser daily compared accounts with the clerk; everything the officers required, they paid for, or it was deducted from their pay.
And there was the ship’s chaplain, an old Dutchman named Henninger with white hair and a deeply lined face, a large, tall man who proved to have a kind heart and a deep, soft voice that seemed to impart comfort even in casual conversation. Most of the younger officers tended to glide, not obviously, to whatever portion of the room where Henninger was not, so Bliven had him virtually to himself for a few moments. He proved to be of the Congregationalist faith, but Bliven quickly ascertained that he had seen too much of the world to be as doctrinaire and cocksure of himself as the Reverend Beecher of Long Island. Still, it would be well to be able to write Clarity that he had made a friend of the ship’s cleric, who was of her faith. And he could not escape the intrusion into the back of his mind the thought that, should he fall in a coming battle, the letter of condolence back home to her, and his family, would be of a more heartfelt nature than what was more usually and generically written.
At length the door opened from the commodore’s great sea cabin, and his cook, whose praises Cutbush had sung, said, “Gentlemen, if you please.”
The great cabin was set for dinner, with walnut furniture, a Brussels carpet, and a cut-glass decanter and glasses on a sideboard. The only reminders present that they were aboard a man-of-war was the low ceiling with its thick beams of white oak and the butt end of a long twenty-four, its lanyards neatly coiled, the gun port sealed from the weather by a canvas shroud. When it came to a fight, even this most luxurious refuge of the ship fought, too.
Preble stood at the far end of the cabin, and standing with him was a tall man with long, thinning hair, gaunt but not sick-looking, and standing by him was
a young woman, slender, not particularly pretty, as Bliven noted, but the bloom of youth could make up for some of that, and she appeared to be not much older than Clarity.
“Gentlemen,” said Preble, “we shall have guests on our voyage; they will be with us until we call at Algiers. May I present Mr. Tobias Lear, our newly accredited consul to that state, and Mrs. Lear, who by way of introduction she may not object if I point her out as a niece of Mrs. President Washington.”
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Gentlemen,” said Lear, to nods and slight bows around the cabin.
Bliven had heard of him, that he had served many years as General Washington’s private secretary, that he was present at Washington’s death, that Washington had relied on him unreservedly in his last years and was crestfallen to learn that Lear had stolen tenants’ rent from him, but had restored him to favor upon an abject enough apology. Bliven knew that almost no one trusted him, and there had been talk, not specific, that Jefferson kept him in government service in consideration of certain letters that Jefferson had sent to Washington, which Lear held in safekeeping, that would not reflect well on Jefferson or some others if they were made public. After Lear’s first wife died, he married first a niece of General Washington’s, and when she died he married a niece of Mrs. Washington’s.
“Lieutenant,” Lear said to Bliven, when his turn came for conversation, “that was quite a noisy time you gave us this morning. I understand it was your guns that were directly over our heads.”
“Yes, sir. Exercising the guns is indeed quite a noisy business.”
“I trust you will be equally lively if it comes to engaging the Moors at sea.”
“A good deal more so, I daresay.”
Lear laughed and nodded; that was Bliven’s signal that he was being dismissed from the conversation, but he did not realize it until Lear turned his attention to Sam, and then the next one. Lear was a man in his full maturity, easily old enough to be his wife’s father. Perhaps it was the sardonic arch of his eyebrows, or the long nose down which he looked at people, or the constant faint smile even when there was nothing apparent to smile at, but everything about his gaze seemed to not just be appraising a situation, but assessing what personal gain it might hold. And what is there to trust in a man who is so desperate to cement his association with an illustrious family that he marries their young women one after another? Instinctively, Bliven did not like him, but there was little time to dwell on it before they were seated for dinner.
The captain’s cook, whom no one called by name and was never introduced, served them while wearing a white apron. He set before them portions of an excellent turkey en croute with carrots, peas, and potatoes; a side of Boston beans baked in molasses and whiskey; and thick slices of warm brown bread; and poured them glasses of Madeira wine, which Bliven had never tasted before. He was too inexperienced with wines to appreciate their subtleties, but he gathered from the comments around the table that it must be very fine. At the end he served them preserved pears over hot gingerbread, and small cups of hot chocolate.
The Constitution, Bliven calculated, had a crew of 450 men, 434 of whom would never have a prayer of sampling a meal such as they had eaten. The ship had two cooks, one for the captain and one for everyone else. There must be an art, he thought, not just for cooking the food and sharing the same camboose as the man who cooked the regular seamen’s mess, but an art to carrying the captain’s fare back to his cabin and not being murdered on that long passage down the berth deck for a taste of what he was bearing. Of all the advantages of rank that officers held over the enlisted seamen, this must be the most cruel.
“Well, gentlemen.” Preble got their attention, trying to seem jocular. “You have eaten at my table and therefore are in my debt. So I am going to tell you a little of what I expect of you in the coming months. I shall speak politely, but you are to regard everything I say as having come down from the mount of Sinai.
“Now. You well know that our Congress did not declare war on the Barbary states, but they did recognize that hostilities exist and untied our hands in terms of taking prizes, engaging with initiative, and so on. I wish to say that I have no doubt in my mind that we will engage these pirates, and further, I believe that we will find them a more formidable opponent than many now suppose. We face an enemy who believe themselves to be superior beings, who feel commissioned by God to act as they have done, and who have no feeling for the lives or suffering of others. It is true that they have not heretofore shown themselves capable in battle, but when we invade their harbors and bombard their cities, we must expect a greater spirit than they have shown in capturing unarmed merchantmen and taking women and children for slaves.”
There was a murmur of approval around the table.
“When we join the squadron in Gibraltar, I expect every man to fulfill his duty, but beyond that, we must act in unity, in good faith and reliance upon one another. By which I mean there is to be no fighting, and positively no dueling, among the officers or crew. Any quarrels among you will be nipped in the bud and settled. The navy secretary has asked me to register his most particular concern in this matter, and I absolutely order you to be diligent in its observance.
“To those of you who have not sailed with me before, I say this. Make a mistake and you will be disciplined and encouraged to do better. But defy me, deliberately disobey me, subvert my authority in any way whatever, and I will make you wish you had never been born. Now, gentlemen, we are the officers of a great ship, sailing in the service of a great nation. There cannot conceivably be any quarrel among you great enough to override that. My door is always open to those who may need counsel. Do we understand each other?”
The “Yes, sir” that passed around the table was more emphatic than a murmur, and left Preble satisfied that he had made the necessary impression. “Very well, gentlemen, a good evening to you. You are dismissed.”
Most had departed when he added suddenly, “Mr. Putnam, a moment more.” When the others had left he added, “Have you something for me?”
“Yes, sir. I was afraid you had forgotten.” He had been balancing a book on his thigh all during dinner, and handed it to him. “It is Dr. Thomson’s new translation of The Lives of the Caesars, by Suetonius. Nothing tedious about them, to be sure.”
“M-hm.” Preble ran his fingers down the ridged leather binding.
“If you have already read it, I can select another.”
“I have not read it, this will do very well. Do you recommend it?”
“It is fascinating to read,” said Bliven, “but some of what they did was truly and epically horrible. I fear I have not succeeded in puzzling out why they often acted as they did.”
“Power, unless I miss my guess. Power makes some men go mad.” Preble held the book up in the air. “We shall see! I thank you.”
“You are most welcome, sir. Good evening to you.”
That night Bliven’s sleep was enhanced by the Madeira, and by the Constitution’s roll in a moderately heavy sea. Her reputation was that she rolled deep, but easy, and she always recovered in a stately manner. It was not enough to make him sick, he reckoned, nor to keep him awake. Indeed, he slept soundly, until he was jarred awake by the staccato drumroll of a beat to quarters. Instinctively, he was in his shoes and pulling on his coat and sword, his head clearing of the Madeira only slowly, as he opened his cabin door to witness the other lieutenants and midshipmen in equal disarray. Then they heard the bosun’s voice echoing down the berth deck: “All hands on deck to witness punishment!”
Sam encountered Bliven just outside his own cabin. “What in hell?” he asked.
Bliven shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”
On the quarterdeck they found Preble fully in uniform; he looked as though he had been awake for hours. At the waist of the spar deck a square of marines surrounded a hapless-looking and unkempt seaman, with Dr. Cutbush, the bosun, the master a
t arms, and the cook in attendance. All four hundred fifty of the crew on the spar deck created a crush of men; Preble stepped to the front of the officers and pointed a finger at the luckless sailor. “All hands,” he said loudly, “hear me now. This man was apprehended sleeping at his post. Men, we are sailing into a war. Such dereliction cannot and will not be tolerated. The safety of this ship and every man on it depends utterly on every man being diligent in his duty. Completely diligent. Now, for this crew it is a first occurrence, and for this man a first offense. Therefore I shall be lenient, this one time. But do not mistake my leniency for weakness. If you do, I swear to you, you will regret it.” Preble swept his arm across the assembled crew. “The navy accords every man of you four hours in each twenty-four to sleep. That is enough to sustain any man to perform his duty. What seeks more comes of indolence, and indolence is intolerable!”
Somewhere in the back of Bliven’s still-sleepy mind the question occurred to him, if four hours’ sleep was sufficient for the crew, why were officers accorded eight hours? But it was not a question to pursue at the moment. He and the other lieutenants, and the midshipmen in front of them, saw the sailor’s unbuttoned shirt stripped down from his shoulders, his hands lashed over his head to a hatch grate, which was then leaned against the rail of the spar deck. Preble surveyed the company and saw that all was ready. “Six lashes,” he said flatly.
The offending sailor was not one that Bliven had had any contact with, and he did not look terribly afraid. The cook raised a dipper of water to his lips before it commenced, not especially because he was thirsty but because it was part of the ritual, as Bliven was to learn. The bosun handed the cat to the master at arms, who shook it out gently to separate its strands, as Dr. Cutbush stood by.
Every time Bliven saw a cat o’ nine tails he was surprised that it was not larger, for it was less than a yard in length. It had a leather grip from which a plaited rope issued, that divided into three strands, and each of those three into three, the nine each knotted at the end to prevent further unraveling.
The Shores of Tripoli Page 18
