“Rarely does the fog last in these waters for more than a day or two, Oliver. We’ll be underweigh soon enough. We’ll be needin’ a fair breeze as well and would be waitin’ on that in any case. You watch and see if I’m not right.” The third lieutenant smiled his consolation and continued aft to the quarterdeck where I could just make out his form as it disappeared into a scuttle there.
I cast another look about the ship, all that I could see of her, taking in the dripping rigging as it faded into nothingness aloft and the spar deck guns, black and glistening in their wetness. I noticed that each successive one became more indistinct as my eye traveled forward. With disappointment shrouding my very soul even more than the fog shrouded the brig, I returned below to take some breakfast with my fellow occupants of the cockpit.
The three of them were seated on their chests around the table: Judd at the head, as befitted his position as the senior among us, and flanked by Tom Wheatley on his left, or larboard, side and the round-faced, and bodied, James Stevens, the youngest of us at just thirteen, to his right or starboard hand. My place at the foot of the table had been left open, and Riley, our steward, stood, or rather stooped, as he was nearly six feet in height, half in and half out of my ‘cupboard.’ They all looked up upon my entrance. Wheatley, whom I had quickly grown to dislike, spoke first.
“Well, Baldwin, it don’t feel like you’ve done a respectable job gettin’ us underweigh. I’d warrant we’re still swingin’ to the hook, just like we been doin’ for the two weeks since I come aboard and before. Decatur squeamish ‘bout goin’ to war?” His tone and words rankled, and, remembering Mother’s counsel, I took a deep breath before answering.
“There’s thick fog over us and not a breath of wind, Tom. And I’d bet my last dollar that Captain Decatur is more eager and ready than any aboard to get his ship to sea and into the conflict with the Bashaw.”
“Oh, yes. I quite forgot that our captain is also a Philadelphia man who wouldn’t be squeamish about anything.” Wheatley tried unsuccessfully to imitate the accent of an educated person. He did it frequently as a last effort at insulting any who spoke clearer English than he, but it served only to heighten the disdain his target felt towards him. Judd Devon spoke up in an effort to extinguish the smoldering embers of animosity before they could burst into the full flame of hate and disrupt the camaraderie of our quarters.
“Fog, huh? Well, I would guess we’ll be swinging to the hook for at least another day or two. Once it comes in to these waters, it’ll generally hang about for a couple of days, though I have experienced a fortnight of unbroken fog myself right here in Boston.” Judd too had little use for Wheatley and directed his comment at me. A week and more back, after Thomas Wheatley had joined our mess, Judd had mentioned privately to me that he had taken the opinion that “Our newest member comported himself with an arrogance ill-befitting his experience and talents.” I noticed Devon had put on just a bit more of the aristocratic air than normal and took it as a response to Tom’s jibe at me. Tom, for his part, said nothing, but it seemed as if his whole lower jaw thrust even farther forward from its normally defiant cast.
Young James took it all in and, when the comments concluded, looked at me with close-set eyes and then at Judd while he asked, around a half-chewed mouthful of burgoo, “So, did you find out when we really will leave, Oliver? I wonder if there would be time for me to get ashore once more.” He smiled hopefully at Judd and, releasing the cheekful of breakfast, chewed with renewed enthusiasm while he awaited a favorable answer. The cheek, recently the repository for the contents of his mouth, remained puffed out, as did its mate opposite.
“I would think so, James. But you likely ought to ask Lieutenant Cutler ’bout that. Seems like you’ve been ashore quite frequently in the last week or so. You’ve got some business there, I collect?” Judd knew full well that the lad had no business ashore, but rather he was scared to death about going to sea, having been sent to the Navy by his widowed mother as one less mouth to feed.
To my knowledge, James Stevens had made no effort to learn anything of the ship or her workings; in fact, he seemed to close his mind to any assistance offered by any of us in that direction. On one occasion, the rotund youngster had admitted tearfully to Judd that he wanted no part of the Navy, Captain Decatur, or the Argus brig. In keeping with his obstinate attitude, he also quite refused to even pick up the navigation book we had been assigned to read preparatory to learning the practical aspect of the art, nor, to my knowledge, had he even opened any of the other books on seamanship or naval etiquette we all had been required to read. However, in spite of his distaste for the Navy and our ship, he seemed to have developed a great taste for the offerings of the midshipmen’s mess, and, at least once, had secured for himself an invitation to the Gunroom to dine with the officers. Even Thomas Wheatley had joined our quiet wager as to whether or not the invitation would be repeated!
Now, however, Wheatley directed his bile at our youngest and weakest shipmate. “He likely wants to go cry to his mama one last time. What have you to go ashore for, you little worm? You’d better spend your time learning how to be a midshipman, ‘stead o’ runnin’ off to your mama every chance you get. We had a youngster like yourself in the Norfolk brig; didn’t last the year. If he wasn’t seasick or whining about missing his mother, he was just underfoot. I think I can take the credit for his not being in the Navy any longer! You might take a lesson from that, Little Jimmy.”
“Wheatley, leave the boy alone. What James does is none of your concern.” Judd, his tone hard-edged, had a look on his face that would brook none of Wheatley’s bullying, and the strength to enforce it should he need to.
Wheatley, chastised, glared at Judd for a moment and then returned his attention to his food, chewing with unnecessary fervor. For my part, I remained silent, and then the moment had passed, assisted by Riley, who noisily cleared and replaced dishes. When he spilled a dollop of burgoo into Wheatley’s lap, incurring a predictable invective including the mention of a flogging, our mess returned to a more normal tone, albeit with an undercurrent of tension.
As the ship was ready for sea in all respects, there was little to do in the way of further preparation. The mids, along with much of the ship’s company were allowed to spend the day in private pursuits, studying, mending clothes, or skylarking on deck. For my own self, I had found a seat on the capstan while Bosun Anderson expanded my education of knots and splices, patiently demonstrating each to me until I could repeat it flawlessly.
Shortly before ‘spirits up’ was piped, James Stevens rushed up with his familiar waddling gait, quite red in the face from his exertions, and announced in his squeaking voice, “Oliver! I’ve been looking all over the ship for you. Lieutenant Morris wants you in the Gunroom quick as ever you please. You’d better...”
“James, James, calm down. I am sure it isn’t a crisis. Did he happen to mention what it was he wanted me for?” I slid off the capstan head, handing the piece of rope I was splicing back to the bosun.
“Why would he tell me anything, Baldwin? He’s likely not even aware I’m part of the ship’s company; that or he thinks I’m just a messenger. I don’t count for nothin’ here.”
“Were you to do something to change that, such as read the books we’re supposed to, learn your lessons, and try to get on with being a midshipman, he, and the other officers, might not think you ‘count for nothing’ and help you.” I could not hear him whine without I offered him my—and others’— thoughts on his position. He merely looked at me and wandered over to the bulwark to stare into the water through the still swirling fog.
I found Lieutenant Morris sitting in the Gunroom with the first lieutenant and the captain of marines, Lieutenant Trippe. Another lieutenant, William Hobbs, who had only recently joined the ship, stood in his cabin doorway quite involved with a sheaf of papers. I remained silent and was unnoticed at the open door for a moment and took the opportunity to observe my superiors as they continued their c
onversation.
The Marine lieutenant, whom I had only met once before was a man of about twenty-five years, short and heavily built with quite broad shoulders and a thick neck. His voice seemed to rumble from somewhere deep within him. His face, what I could see of it, as he was partially turned away from me, was almost square with wide-set eyes and a flat nose. He wore a mustache and bushy side-whiskers and looked to me as though he were one who would brook no nonsense.
In contrast, Lieutenants Cutler and Morris were lanky men with long narrow faces. Each appeared to be about thirty. Cutler had small eyes which seemed to penetrate that at which he peered, while Morris’s were friendly and often showed the beginnings of a smile. Lieutenant Morris had an aquiline nose and full, almost feminine, lips. Neither wore a mustache, but both wore long, square-trimmed sideburns and unbound hair which just touched the collars of their blue jackets.
Lieutenant Hobbs was an older man, thirty-five and more, were I to chance a guess, who wore spectacles most of the time. Even with the lenses before his eyes, he found it necessary to squint in order to see, which gave him a decidedly sinister look. His height was not much greater than my own, but his build was considerably more robust. His weathered face indicated some considerable time at sea. Indeed, I had heard from Judd Devon that Mister Hobbs had sailed against the French in the short war America had fought at the end of the past century. He had signed on as second lieutenant.
Lieutenant Morris looked up, catching me openly staring at him. I looked immediately away and felt the color rise in my face. He smiled at my embarrassment.
“Oh, yes, Baldwin. I presume young what’s-his-name . . . Stevens? Yes, Stevens discovered your hiding place! I have something here that I am told belongs to you.” Morris reached into his pocket as my face went pale at his remark about a “hiding place.”
“Oh, sir. I was not hiding at all. I was right in plain sight at the capstan with Mister Anderson for the past turn of the glass and more. I don’t have a single idea as to why Mister Stevens was unable to discover my whereabouts. But I surely was not hiding!” 1 thought it sounded, even to me, a trifle whiny. Hold your tongue, Baldwin. You won’t do yourself any favor acting the child. I took my own advice and stopped my protestations.
“Indeed. I am sure you were not. Must have missed you in the fog, I reckon. In the event, might this be yours?” Morris thrust out his hand at me and laid on the table a silver watch—my silver watch!
“Oh, my, sir. Yes, sir. It surely is my watch. If I may inquire, sir, how did it happen to come into your possession?” I couldn’t believe my eyes! The watch that had been stolen from me even before I reported on board Argus was right there in front of me, ticking happily on the table. I stepped closer and, fearful that it might only be a mirage, tentatively reached out my hand.
The timepiece did not disappear; indeed, it did not even move. I picked it up and, turning it over carefully, almost reverently, examined it for signs of abuse or perhaps a clue as to where it had been. Each of the several times I had been ashore on one or another of the errands necessary before departure, I had kept a “weather eye” out for that scoundrel, Edward Langford. I had even revisited the alehouse where I had met with my misadventure and walked the length of the pier where I had first encountered him. All to no avail. He was nowhere to be found, at least in my wanderings limited by the time afforded me by whichever of the missions I was on. Of course, I had made no plan of action or even thought much about what I would say beyond youthful bravado and boast. Perhaps it was just as well we never “crossed tacks” as Lieutenant Cutler had predicted. But the lieutenant had been right about the return of my watch.
“The gunner picked it up from a fellow ashore in a taproom. Likely your friend Langford. He was tryin’ to sell it to raise a few dollars for whiskey and offered it to Gunner Tarbox. Lieutenant Cutler had mentioned some weeks ago you’d been robbed of your property and the gunner recollected what he’d heard. You owe him five dollars, I might mention. That’d be the amount he paid Lang-ford, or whoever it was selling the watch, and it wouldn’t be right for him to be out of pocket on your account.” Morris, having offered his explanation of how my timepiece had found its way back to me, turned back to Captain Trippe and quite ignored my slack-jawed stare.
I was both blessed and cursed in the same stroke! Here was my watch safely back in my possession, but I was expected to repay Gunner Tarbox the money he had expended on the assumption the watch might be mine! The problem, of course, was that I had only three of the five dollars Purser Baker had advanced me, having spent two of my precious coins for, among other things, my ration allowance in the Midshipmen’s Mess. I did not fancy returning to the flinty-faced Mister Baker for a further advance on my pay! I noticed when I lifted my eyes from the timepiece that Lieutenant Cutler was watching me closely; I guessed that he had suspected my dilemma.
“Was there something else, Mister Baldwin?” he queried. A smile was forming on his thin lips and even in the dim light of a pair of lanterns, I could see an uncharacteristic sparkle beginning to form in his eyes as he waited for my response.
“I . . .uh . . . well, sir. Uh . . . no, sir. I reckon not.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit that once again I was in the straits of financial difficulty.
“Then you are dismissed. I would suggest you find Mister Tarbox and thank him for capturing your watch by refunding the investment he made on your behalf. Likely he’ll be in the magazine or not far from it.” Cutler’s eyes bored into me, then, seeing nothing of further interest in me, returned his attention to his colleagues.
“Aye, aye, sir. I’ll do that exactly.” I turned and left the Gunroom, my joy at the return of my timepiece offset by my dismay at having to come up with five dollars that I did not, and would not for a month and more, have.
The gunner, a warrant officer of indeterminate age, was a towering figure who, without any effort at all, could frighten all but the most seaworthy of sailors, not to mention young midshipmen. As I searched him out (my heart was not in it), I tried to determine what course I would follow when indeed I did “cross tacks” with him. As I stepped off the ladder just aft of the magazine, I spied Mister Tarbox just removing the carpet slippers from his feet (they were required in the magazine so as not to cause an unwelcome spark). He looked up at my approach.
“Yes, Mister Baldwin? Is there something I can do for you?” In the confines of the lower deck, his voice was overpowering.
“I . . . uh . . . yes. Gunner. That is ...” I still had not decided on what to say. I hesitated, collected myself, and pressed on. “Actually, Mister Tarbox, I wanted to thank you for recovering my watch.” That was a good start, I thought. “My father gave it to me before I left home and I was some dismayed over its loss. Lieutenant Morris returned it to me just now and gave me to understand that I was in your debt for having recovered it.” He had no idea just how in his debt I was about to be!
“Aye. Shifty-eyed fellow it were, in some alehouse near the piers, what had it. Sailor he were, if’n I was to wager on it, and ashore not by his own hand. Offered it to me for some whiskey money, I reckon. Since the first lieutenant had told most of the hands that we might keep an eye open for it, I figgered to take it off’n him and see if’n it might be your’n. If’n it weren’t, I’d gotten my own self a fair watch at only a few dollars. Probably worth more’n twelve, I’d warrant.” He continued putting on his shoes without looking further at me, until I remained silent, thinking.
“Was there something else, Mister Baldwin?” Tarbox stood up as straight as the low overhead, or ceiling, would permit and fixed me with a questioning stare. His forehead was furrowed and his balding scalp was sweating quite freely in the confined, but strangely cool atmosphere of the lower deck. He wiped his great hands on his already dirty canvas trousers and, putting the just-doffed carpet slippers in their cubbyhole, waited for a response.
“Well, yes, I thought. . . that is to say ... I ... uh ... I should repay you for your trouble on my beh
alf.” Actually, Lieutenant Morris thought I should.
“That would be welcome, sir. I was five dollars out of pocket to secure your timepiece and I’ll be glad to have it back.” He actually smiled at me! Then he stepped around me and headed up the ladder without a backward glance. His stiff leg necessitated a one-step-at-a-time gait, but he accomplished the ascent with the practiced ease of one who had dealt with his handicap for some years. I followed him all the way to the spar deck where the bosun was enjoying a pipe at the rail. Tarbox slipped into place beside his fellow warrant officer and pulled out, lit, and took a great puff on a cheroot.
His back was to me, and I suppose I could have made off right then and there without further conversation. I had not been taught to run from a problem; best to confront them straight on. So I stayed, shuffling my feet while I thought of something to say.
Tarbox and Anderson turned to face me. I looked from one to the other until the gunner broke the silence.
“Was there something else, Mister Baldwin? I figgered we was done below.”
“I want to pay you your money, Gunner, but I am short until I start drawing my pay. I certainly will not cheat you; I was brought up right and would never do that. But if you can wait a bit, I’ll see you get the five dollars quick as I get it.” My voice quavered a trifle, so I stopped and watched his lined face for an indication of how I was doing. No reaction. “I’ll let you hold my watch until I pay you. As a bond for my word, if you like.” This last quite slipped out. I had had no intention of offering him my watch. Who knew what might happen to it in his care?
The Greater the Honor Page 5
