At the conclusion of the firing exercises, the officers seemed subdued and spent some considerable time talking among themselves both on the quarterdeck with Captain Decatur and off it with Gunner Tarbox and some of the gun captains. After the noon meal, some of us had the opportunity to alter the officers’ perception of our skills.
Small arms and boarding drills were conducted by watch on the spar deck. We midshipmen were taken as a group by Gunner Tarbox, who stood at the bulwark amidships with a box of pistols, several horns of powder, and a small cask attached to a lengthy piece of thin rope. The sailors, meanwhile, learned the use of the cutlass, pike, halfpike, and hatchet, or as some referred to it, the tomahawk.
“Who among you has fired a pistol before?” Tarbox studied each of our faces as we stood mute before him. James and I exchanged glances; his eyes were big and I suspected the thought of a pistol in his own hand made him uncomfortable. For my own part, I thought it might be fun! Then Judd stepped forward.
“I am familiar with the use of a pistol, Gunner. Fired one regular on our last cruise with Commodore Morris and before, when I was in the merchants.”
Tarbox nodded, and I stole a glance at Wheatley, surprised he had not spoken up right off, given his year of service already as a midshipman. He was not looking at me, but glaring at Judd, the familiar thrust to his jaw and clenched fists a clear indication of what would be coming next. He did not keep us in suspense for long.
“I’ve fired pistols before, Gunner. Ain’t nothin’ to it. I even hit what I aim at. I was among the best on the Norfolk brig down to the Chesapeake.” He shot a glance at Judd, then fixed his glare on the gunner.
There it was! We all knew well of his time in the brig, since he mentioned it often enough in the cockpit and elsewhere, comparing us to his mates there. His remarks usually centered on how much James and I had to learn and how poorly Argus compared to his former vessel.
“Well, then, sir, why don’t you just take one of these and show these other young gentlemen how to use it?” The gunner handed Tom a pistol and stepped back.
Wheatley took the proffered gun and turned it this way and that as he studied it. I wasn’t sure he knew what to do next, but I was proven wrong when he pulled back the hammer with its flint and then released it slowly so that no spark was created. It seemed to me that there was a slight tremor in his hands as he held the weapon.
“Where’s the balls and powder at, Gunner? Pistol ain’t nothin’ but a cudgel without it’s loaded.” He suddenly turned the weapon in his hand and, grasping it by its barrel, swung it down toward the bulwark so that the heavy brass knob on the pistol’s butt made a thud and a dent in the wood. He smiled wolfishly at James and me. The smile broadened as I heard James draw in his breath.
“Here now, sir. Ain’t no need to be beatin’ on the barky. You’ll want to save that for them piratical bastards over yonder when we get there. For now, here’s your ball and powder.” The gunner pointed to a pouch and horn hanging from the bulwark. “Show your fellows how to load it and then we’ll see what you can hit with it. Aside the bulwark.” Tarbox’s last remark made all of us except, of course, Wheatley, smile.
Wheatley fairly snatched the offered powder horn off its peg. He angrily poured some powder (it seemed like quite a lot to me) into the muzzle and stuffed a wad in quickly. He yanked the ramrod from under the barrel and thrust it into the opening. His jaw had returned to its defiant cast, I noticed. He said something under his breath and, though I was unable to make out clearly what he muttered, it sounded like “beside the bulwark, indeed.” He shifted the gun to his right hand and sprinkled a few grains of powder into the pan atop the barrel.
“He didn’t put a ball in, Oliver!” James whispered. His glee at seeing our tormentor about to embarrass himself again was barely contained. Even with his complete lack of familiarity with a pistol, James had noticed this oversight.
I looked at Gunner Tarbox to see if he would step in. He did not; in fact, he picked up the small cask, uncoiled its line, and balanced it on the bulwark right next to the quite obvious dent Thomas had just made.
“Well, Mister Wheatley, if you’re happy with your load, let’s see what you can hit with it.” Tarbox stepped forward and, with a mighty heave, pitched the cask over the side so that it ran immediately to the end of its tether and then started in toward the ship’s side. “There’s your target, sir. Fire when you will.”
Tom stepped to the bulwark, aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. James and I held our breath as the flint struck the steel, making a spark which touched off the powder in the pan. The fire sputtered and smoked and then with a crack, the pistol spat out a foot-long flame and the wad Thomas had so energetically rammed down the barrel. The end of the barrel split with a squeal that followed so closely on the sound of the discharge as to be almost indistinguishable from it. Thomas dropped the pistol and cried out in alarm. Tarbox and Judd smiled. James and I laughed aloud. The pistol clattered to the deck, and, since we were standing on the leeward side, slid toward the waterway under the bulwark where there was nothing to stop it from continuing into the sea. And continue it did, in spite of the gunner’s shout for Thomas to retrieve it.
“Well, I reckon it wasn’t no good for doin’ anything with, save using it as a cudgel, like you showed us, Mister Wheatley. Blew the end of her clear off, you done, by God! And didn’t even load a ball!” Tarbox didn’t raise his voice or even look distressed; his tone was matter-of-fact and probably angered Wheatley even more than had he been more severe.
“Pistol hadda been split when you gave it to me. Wouldn’t have done that—opened up the barrel like it done—less’n it was already split. You were trying to get me hurt, and probably intentional it was, too. I ought to bring you up on charges to the captain for what you done. “ Wheatley’s invective, now that he had recovered from the shock of the explosion in his hand, was issued in a voice loud enough to cause some of the men nearby to stop their cutlass training and look at our group. Tarbox ignored him completely and, picking up another pistol, spoke quietly, for him, to all of us. I noticed that Tom was flexing the fingers of his right hand, shaking it from time to time, as if trying to restore it to sensitivity.
“I will now show you how to load, prime, and fire a muzzle-loading pistol. Observe, if you will, sirs, that I am pouring a measured amount of powder into the barrel; the end of the horn, here, will do that for you if’n you don’t tip it up too much. A wad’s next, rammed down tight with the rammer, here, and then, Mister Wheatley, a ball goes in.” Gunner Tarbox looked right at Thomas, a sparkle in his eyes the only indication of his jibe at the midshipman. “Ram her down nice and snug, put a small amount of powder, like you done, sir, in the pan, and pull the hammer back.” He held up the loaded and cocked pistol for all to see. Was it my imagination, or was it more in front of Thomas’ eyes than any others?
He handed the pistol, butt first, to James. It might have been a venomous serpent from the way James took it into his chubby hand. The look on his face was one of wild-eyed horror.
“Don’t be scared of it, sir. It ain’t gonna do you no harm less’n it’s pointed at you. Just grab aholt of the butt like you done and aim her out yonder. When she settles down in your hand, just pull the trigger—and hang on to it!” I thought this was more for the benefit of Thomas than anyone else, but James nodded seriously at the advice and raised the gun at arm’s length in front of him.
The rest us of watched as James waved the loaded pistol around, the barrel describing circles that seemed to get wider and wider in the air. We all, even Gunner Tarbox, took a step backward.
“Never mind yourself about the target, sir. Just try to hit the water for now.” Tarbox had been through this before, and his patience and humor would see him through yet again.
Bang! The gun jumped up as it fired; James yelped in surprise, but he hung onto it. A little cloud of gray smoke hung momentarily over the gun and then blew away in the steady breeze. And I saw a tiny geyser s
hoot up in the water some fifty yards from the ship. James’ face split into a big smile.
“I did it! And I didn’t drop it overboard!” His exclamation brought smiles to all of us, save Thomas, who glared at the young mid, muttering something about “hitting the water.”
“All right, sir. That was just fine. Now you load it and try it again.” Tarbox handed him the powder horn.
James was caught up in the excitement of his success. He slowly poured some powder into the muzzle, rammed home a wad and ball and looked expectantly at the gunner. Tarbox was hauling in the cask and, when he had retrieved it, stepped forward in his peculiar gait, balanced it on the bulwark, and looked back to James.
“You let me know when you’re ready, Mister Stevens, and then we’ll see about hittin’ something.”
“Aye. That’ll be a joke, him hittin’ something asides the water!” Wheatley mumbled his invective, but we all, including James, heard it quite plainly.
“You just watch, Thomas. At least I got a chance of hitting the cask; there’s a ball in the gun!”
James must be feeling better, I thought. He’s actually standing up for himself!
“When you young sirs are through a-visitin’, I’ll heave this overboard.” Was Tarbox losing his patience?
“I’m ready, Gunner.” James raised the heavy pistol to arm’s length again and, while it still made circles in the air, they were smaller, I thought.
The cask flew out from the ship, splashed in the water and immediately began to drift aft as Argus continued sailing on her course.
Thomas Wheatley gave James a shove at exactly the moment James pulled the trigger. The little geyser was nowhere near the cask, which continued to move quickly aft.
“Damn you, Wheatley! You did that on purpose. You made me miss!” Tears welled up in the young mid’s eyes as he glared in frustration at his tormentor.
“Now, little Jimmy, you know Cap’n Decatur don’t allow no cussin’ aboard his ship. If you apologize for ‘damning’ me, I won’t have to mention it to him. Probably save you from gettin’ mast-headed, it will. And don’t cry.” Thomas smiled benignly at Stevens who stared, quite uncomprehendingly, at him. I’m not sure James even knew what ‘mast-heading’ meant; I knew that I didn’t.
“You go to hell, Wheatley. I’ll take whatever Captain Decatur gives me. But I will not apologize for what I said unless you apologize for pushing me.”
This was a new James, standing up for himself. Judd once again assumed the role of peacemaker.
“All right now, gentlemen. Let us not waste Gunner Tarbox’s time with squabbling. Thomas, leave James alone. You’ll get your turn to show us how good you might, or might not, be. James, load the pistol and take one more shot at the cask. No one will bother you ... this time.” This last was accompanied by a sharp look at Wheatley and received an equally hard look in return.
And so the pistol practice continued. We each took several turns at loading and firing the gun. While only Judd actually hit the cask, the rest of us got quite close with a few shots. I think mine might have been closest! Of course, Wheat-ley’s misses were accompanied by a host of excuses including being pushed, losing his balance from an unexpected roll of the ship, and the cask bouncing on a wave at an inopportune moment.
As we broke up to go about our respective duties, I saw Judd take Thomas aside and, while I could hear not a word of their conversation, I could imagine what was said just by their postures and the looks on their faces. I knew the incident was not yet over.
The sailors were still at their cutlass drills. I watched for a moment as two parried and thrust at each other. The heavy swords clanged as they met, accompanied by the grunts of the men and the occasional epithet as one or another succeeded in a move. Of course, blood had been spilt, and once again, the surgeon was busy sewing up gashes in arms and legs made by the overzealous combatants. I was glad that we midshipmen had been given pistols to use! The thought of a cutlass in Thomas Wheatley’s hands was almost too much for me to imagine!
That evening the midshipmen received word that we were to dine in the Cabin with Captain Decatur for dinner on the morrow. Judd had told me that a captain often invited the other officers and even the occasional midshipman to his table, but when Harris, the captain’s steward stepped into the cockpit with the invitation, I couldn’t believe my ears. I was going to eat in the captain’s Cabin! I think James was more nervous than even I was, thinking about how Wheatley had threatened to tell Decatur about the cussing incident.
“Do you think he will, Oliver? I wouldn’t know what to say if he did actually tell the captain.” James furrowed brow and round eyes suggested that, despite his brave words earlier, he really was afraid of Wheatley and what he might do or say.
“Oh, I don’t think he’d do that, James. That remark was just said to scare you. Besides, Captain Decatur might not even care.” I wished I believed my own words as much as I wanted James to. I knew the captain had a firm policy that was intolerant of any swearing aboard his ship.
The evening’s meal passed without the usual boisterous skylarking in the cockpit, and, as usual, Thomas sounded the only discordant note by defending his poor performance with the pistol while, at the same time, denigrating our own. Judd, the only one among us who had actually hit the target, smoothed his ruffled feathers with a droll remark about all of us needing practice, which we were bound to get as long as Tarbox maintained his patience and sense of humor.
The evening watches were stood, and the day following dawned red and fiery. I had the morning watch and observed it with great delight until Mister Hobbs mentioned that it likely signaled a change for the worse in the weather. The day continued with practice at the great guns. This time both Tarbox and Hobbs noticed some improvement. When the crew was piped to ‘spirits up’ and dinner, we mids scurried to the cockpit to change into appropriate uniform for our dinner with Captain Decatur.
At the appointed hour, the four of us, in our best uniforms, which consisted of our cleanest, but with well-blackened boots and polished brass, stood outside the Cabin in the close passageway while the captain’s Marine sentry knocked, announced us, and then nodded us into the Cabin.
We filed in, Judd, then Thomas, me, and James. Captain Decatur stood in the larboard quarter gallery talking with Lieutenant Cutler and Mister Wakefield, our surgeon. He excused himself and stepped forward to greet us with a smile and a welcoming handshake.
“How nice of you young gentlemen to join me for dinner. I thought it might prove a good opportunity for us all to get to know one another better since we’re to be shipmates for some time, should Providence smile on us. Please, let us all take a seat. Mister Cutler, here on my right, if you please, Mister Wakefield, there on my left, and Mister Devon next to Mister Cutler. Mister Baldwin, you’ll sit next to Mister Wakefield, if you would, please, and, Mister Wheatley, there, and you, Mister Stevens, right there next to your colleague, if you please.”
The table fitted us all quite comfortably and had been set with a white linen and lit by candles in plate holders. Glasses (real crystal, I think) were at each place and in front of the captain’s place was a large decanter filled with wine. The light from the candles sparkled and reflected in the glassware, shooting little sparks of brilliance around the room as the flames flickered. Never had I dined in such splendor! As we sat, I thought fleetingly of our mess in the cockpit and how it would never seem quite the same.
“We’ve not been formally introduced; I am Reliance Wakefield, sir, and I know you are Mister Baldwin, of Philadelphia, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, sir. Oliver Baldwin, sir. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.” I stuck out my hand, turning awkwardly to offer it to the doctor, who shook it heartily and smiled at me. Almost at once, he poured my glass full with the dark, aromatic wine from the decanter handed to him by the captain.
“I’m a Marylander, myself, near Baltimore. Been up to Philadelphia many times. Fine city, it is. Pity it’s no longer
our capital; served very well, ‘ceptin’ for the outbreaks of yellow fever that seem to spring up every summer.” He smiled, whether at me or the recollection of times in Philadelphia, I don’t know. Then he continued, still smiling. “Our captain tells me you have a brother sailing with Bainbridge in Philadelphia. I collect they left sometime before us, even before the commodore did, I believe. Bad business, this mess with the Bashaw. I hope this fight will settle that scoundrel’s account once and for all. Should’ve been done back in ‘92 or ‘93 when those pirates first acted up! All of’em together, Tripoli, Algiers, the whole lot of ‘em!” The smile was gone, replaced by a thin line of bloodless lips and a pair of vertical lines emanating from his eyebrows over his nose. He shook his head, then, pulling a delicate white handkerchief from his pocket, proceeded to blow his nose noisily.
“Oh, sir,” I said quickly. “I do hope so! I am not aware of the details of the difficulties with those piratical bast ...” I instantly blushed, having caught myself in language ill-suited to the Cabin and this august company. Too much time with the gunner and bosun was beginning to color my language. Recovering a little of my poise, I continued, “those . . . em . . . corsairs of the Bashaw. But I have heard that they quite routinely stop American merchant ships and demand tribute to their king and, should the money not be paid, seize our ships, and our sailors. Surely, we can not allow that to continue. I am proud to be part of Captain Decatur’s crew and part of Commodore Preble’s squadron who will bring them to heel!”
The Greater the Honor Page 9
