In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  “In war, it is not the men who make

  the difference, but the man.”

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  IN PURSUIT OF GLORY

  By William H. White

  © 2006 by William H. White

  ISBN-10 1-888671-16-5 (Hard Cover)

  ISBN-13 978-1-888671-16-2 (Hard Cover)

  ISBN-10 1-888671-17-3 (Soft Cover)

  ISBN-13 978-1-888671-17-9 (Soft Cover)

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Con-ventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems—without the prior permis-sion in writing of the publisher. The publisher takes no responsibility for the use of any of the materials or methods described herein, not for the products thereof.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 2006 Paul Garnett

  Author photo © William H. White, jr.

  Artist photo © Paul Garnett

  Illustrations © 2006 Paul Garnett

  Photos of Medal issued to the officers of USS United States for their victory over HMS Macedonian courtesy of USS Constitution Museum, Boston, MA.

  Graphic design and production by:

  Scribe, Inc., 842 S. 2nd St., Philadelphia, PA 19147

  Printed in the USA by:

  Victor Graphics, 1211 Bernard Drive, Baltimore, MD 21223 USA

  Questions regarding the content of this book should be addressed to:

  TILLER Publishing

  605 S. Talbot Street, Suite Two

  St. Michaels, Maryland 21663

  410-745-3750 • Fax: 410-745-9743

  www.tillerbooks.com

  DEDICATION

  This volume is for the one in twelve, with love.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As with any endeavor, most of us need the help of others to accomplish our task. This effort is no exception and I would like to set forth those whose efforts on my behalf contributed to the accuracy, characters, and history you shortly will read.

  In Washington, DC, Dr. David Winkler of the Naval Historical Center arranged for me to have the guiding hand of Jean Hort to assist in my research of Commodore Barron’s court martial. She found the necessary documents and, when I ran out of time to study them in their library, copied the many pages I needed and mailed them to me.

  In Boston, Dr. William Fowler, noted author, historian, and then Director of the Massachusetts Historical Society, assisted my effort with information concerning the advancement of a nineteenth century midshipman to lieutenant. Also in Boston, Linda W. Wiseman, authority on American decorative arts and architecture, traveled to Newport, RI to find a suitable house for the grand ball to which Oliver, his captain, and his messmates are invited. She found the perfect one, still extant, built prior to the American Revolution, and used by French General Rochambeau, where it is said that he assisted George Washington in planning the battle of Yorktown.

  Best-selling author, William Martin, very kindly offered a read of the manuscript, made some suggestions for improving it, and provided a most generous “cover quote” for the printed work. Dr. William Dudley, former director of the Naval Historical Center in Washington DC and naval historian par-excellence, did the same. I am indebted to both of these good men for their willingness to share, not only their knowledge, but their reputations as well.

  Harrie Slootbeek, USS Constitution Museum, Boston, provided the photographs of the medal commemorating Decatur’s victory over Macedonian, as well as the description of Isaac Hull’s arrival on Long Wharf, taken from a contemporary account.

  My daughter-in-law, Felicity McGrath, Esq., found a book on Ebay, a bit after the conclusion of writing, that proved so helpful I absolutely had to add some of the wonderful (and well annotated) bits of history to this story. The book was a long-out-of-print edition of naval correspondence between 1805 and 1807 and it will make an ongoing and most useful addition to my personal research library. Felicity, thank you so much!

  Of course, my good friend and extraordinarily talented artist, Paul Garnett, whose rendition of the Chesapeake Leopard Incident adorns the cover, has added immeasurably to my effort by creating an eye-catching and dramatic image surely destined to catch the browser’s eye on a bookshelf.

  Finally, sailing pal and long time ally, Joe Burns, read what I thought was the finished manuscript and found a variety of errors in syntax and grammar that only a long-time copy-writer could. Thanks, Joe.

  There are several others who helped with the creation of characters depicted in these pages; they will remain nameless, as not all of the traits I borrowed from them are of the “first character” and their unwitting contribution to the story should remain a subject shrouded in mystery! But I nonetheless also owe them a debt of gratitude.

  If this book is successful and enjoyed, it is to the credit of these good people who provided of their many talents to ensure it. Of course, this is a work of fiction, and while I have made every effort to remain true to the actual history, errors or mistakes are in no way the fault of the generous folks who gave their help.

  To them, I offer my heartfelt thanks and to you, the reader, I can only hope you will enjoy the story and, perhaps, even discover a few historical gems you might have previously overlooked.

  A final note of thanks and apology to those who have read my previous books and enjoyed them: I thank you for your loyalty and enthusiastic reception of each new effort. Obviously, without you, the reader, a writer has no audience for whom to write and would wither and die on the vine. So again, I offer my heartfelt appreciation for allowing me to continue to do what I love. And finally, I offer my apologies for having kept you waiting for this sequel to The Greater The Honor; it was too long in coming and I hope you find it was worth the wait!

  William H. White

  Rumson, NJ 2006

  PROLOGUE

  At seven o’clock in the morning of 22 June 1807, the United States frigate Chesapeake (36) won her anchor from the mud of Hampton Roads in Norfolk Virginia and set sail for the Mediterranean Sea. On board, in addition to stores and supplies, spare yards, cordage, and materiel for the Mediterranean fleet, was Commodore James Barron, en route to take command of the Squadron, which had been maintained in that sea since the Barbary Wars. Also in the ship was an indeterminate number of former Royal Navy sailors, deserters from their own British ships.

  Immediately the frigate had cleared the Virginia Capes, she was stopped by the British two-decker, HMS Leopard (50), and peaceably first, then forcefully, boarded; four of the deserters were removed to the Royal Navy ship. Chesapeake, severely wounded, returned t
o Norfolk with three dead and over a score wounded, including the commodore.

  After a Court of Inquiry, convened in July 1807 by Secretary of the Navy Smith, ruled sufficient grounds, Captain James Barron, Commodore; Master-commandant Charles Gordon, Captain; Marine Captain John Hall; and Warrant Gunner Hook were all court-martialed for their actions in the brief but sharp and deadly, conflict.

  The populace was outraged at the overt hostility from a nation with which America had enjoyed a twenty-five year peace; demonstrations, riots, speeches, and all manner of outcry ensued. Indeed, even the two governments roiled and blustered over the incident, not embarking on a plan for reparation and calm until the passage of almost two years; it would take another two years of negotiation before the British and American governments would arrive at a satisfactory conclusion to the event.

  This delay of reparation and, of course, the attack itself are widely credited with fanning the smoldering fires of resentment toward Great Britain extant since the American War of Independence, embers that would ultimately burst into flame on 18 June 1812 with a declaration of war by the United States against Great Britain.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “His career’s likely finished with this. Being court martialed for surrendering your ship, Oliver, is certainly not the way to win the admiration of the Navy department … or your fellow officers, I’d warrant. Might even get himself hung for his efforts!”

  Lieutenant William Henry Allen’s words struck me a bit premature as the court he referred to had only just convened one deck below where we now stood, on board USS Chesapeake; the gun announcing it’s commencement had fired not ten minutes before. They also seemed some harsh. The unspoken aura of cowardice hung over the ship and it’s crew like a pall, but so far, had remained unspoken. I called him on his hard opinion.

  “Henry, you don’t have any more idea than I do of how this will finish. I agree that surrendering ones ship, prematurely or otherwise, is a serious charge and some scandalous on top of it. But his career finished, or him hanged like a criminal? I think it might be more prudent to wait until the hearings done and Rodgers, Decatur, and the others have decided the issue. Besides, Captain Gordon and the Marine … uh, Captain Hall, are also being tried. And the gunner. Perchance the court will lay some of the blame on them rather than letting the commodore stand alone.” My breath made a white cloud which hung in the air between us as I spoke.

  “Aye, and with Rodgers on the court, in point of fact, the president of it, I should think it a foregone conclusion that they will vote to convict. And your own friend, Captain Decatur, sits at the table, as well. There’s no love lost ‘twixt the two of them and Barron!” Allen made a wolfish smile as he, in his mind at least, proved his earlier pronouncement.

  “Well,” I responded quickly, searching my memory of the names on the court for one who might balance the enmity of Rodgers and Decatur. “What about Captain Bainbridge? He sits on it as well. You might recall, Henry, when he was court martialed for losing the Philadelphia frigate a few years ago, Commodore Barron supported his cause and voted to exonerate. So at least one of the captains should take a friendly stance to him.”

  Without providing him an opening to counter this brilliant utterance, I then continued my argument, fairly hoisting myself on my own petard. “Besides, I’m sure you know that Decatur tried several times to get his own self excused from this affair. I heard he wrote to the Secretary of the Navy sayin’ he’d already made up his mind that the commodore had faltered in carrying out his duty. But the Secretary claimed there weren’t enough captains on the court and he surely would not let Captain Decatur off. And I’m told that he even mentioned to Barron’s counsel that he had already made up his mind as to the case, but the chap did not exercise his right to protest. Maybe Decatur will maintain a neutral mindset.”

  He simply humphed at this last, not willing to give any ground. I, however, continued to give ground, which, ultimately, caused him to break into a smile which broadened into an eye-crinkling grin.

  Then just to be sure I had overlooked nothing in the way of undercutting my own argument, I pressed on, adding further and, unwitting, concession with each word.

  “I don’t know the minds of the others, but I know Rodgers has never thought highly of Barron, so you may be right that he and Cap’n Decatur will sway the court’s opinion. We’ll have to wait, I guess.”

  Allen, his smile now gone, his eyes stony and flat, stared at me for a long moment, obviously annoyed with my unwillingness to take his opinion as my own. He muttered something and, though close, I only managed to catch a part of it; “… gardless … his actions … shameful.” With no further comment, he turned his back on the ship to study the far shore of Lynnhaven Bay.

  He pulled the collar of his deep blue great coat tighter around his neck as a sharp gust of the raw wind rattled the ice in the rigging and sent a chill that penetrated us to the bone. I turned as well, saying nothing, and we stood together, his hands on the bulwark, mine in my pockets, and individually, silently recalled the events that had conspired to place us (and many others, also to be called as witnesses) here, on USF Chesapeakes decks, secured to a pier at the Norfolk Navy Yard with ice-laden hawsers on this bitter cold and raw day in early January, 1808.

  I also wondered if, perchance, I had been a bit familiar with my friend; after all, he was a lieutenant and I only a midshipman, a senior midshipman with over four years service to be sure, but still a midshipman. After he had won his promotion to lieutenant and the accompanying epaulet or, as we called it, his “swab,” he had generously encouraged two of us (now, with his move to the gunroom, the senior midshipmen aboard) to use the familiar form of address. Until this minute, I had felt comfortable in doing just that, using his middle name (he preferred it to William) as I had when he lived in the midshipmen’s mess. Now I wondered if it was the subject or my forwardness which might be responsible for his sudden foul mood.

  Had the horrors of the past June not occurred, we would have been today on a routine patrol in the warm and sunny Mediterranean Sea, a return to the waters of my first cruise. And while June wasn’t actually so long ago, so much had happened since the wounded Chesapeake had limped back into Norfolk, that the summer seemed as far in the past as the year and more I spent as one of “Preble’s Boys” fighting the corsairs off the Tripolitan coast of Africa.

  When we sailed from Norfolk last June, America was at peace; it had been some two years since we had agreed to a treaty with the Bashaw of Tripoli, our most recent antagonist, giving us no expectation of confrontation or hostility with any. And certainly not a confrontation in our own coastal waters!

  I remembered my own shame that June day as one of the participants, a midshipman only, but an officer in the eyes of the Navy, and still could feel the disgrace of our action as sharply as I did then. I could not help but compare Commodore Barron’s behavior with that of my first (and now again) captain, Stephen Decatur, to whom honor was everything. Even as I looked aloft on this decidedly different day at Chesapeakes taut and orderly rigging, with the blue and yellow court martial flag held straight out by the biting wind, I saw only the shambles left after suffering twenty minutes and more of broadsides from a fifty-gun ship of war. The rig then had been all ahoo and her decks littered not only with fallen spars, blocks, and bits of the rig itself, but also with the still unstowed stores and equipment necessary for a long commission. Most vivid though, was the sight of the shroud-covered bodies of three of her crew and twenty wounded, each crying out in pain. And the gore, still wet, that stained the pale, pristine pine of our decks.

  How different the ten-year-old frigate looked today, restored to her unwounded appearance. As different as today’s Oliver Baldwin was from the one who had left Boston in September of 1803. According to the navy yard, the ship was “as good as new.” But even I knew the vessel would forever carry the burden of having been surrendered after firing barely a shot, just as I would carry with me to the end of my days the mem
ory of war. The older hands, both aboard and ashore, muttered about a “jinx” and “bad luck,” two sobriquets that already had made most difficult finding sufficient numbers of skilled seamen for her crew. Even before the shameful incident of June, Chesapeake had borne the stigma of a “bad luck ship;” she had stuck on the ways, not just once, but twice, while being launched just across the river in Gosport. And when finally she did slide into the water, a yard worker had been killed, struck by a timber balk kicked out by the passage of the ship. Then just last spring, before our fateful meeting in June, her fore t’gallant yard had fallen to the deck while lying at anchor off Alexandria. That incident had resulted in the deaths of a seaman and a boy and injury to four others.

  Yes, Chesapeake had earned her unsavory reputation, I agreed.

  “… Sir? Mister Baldwin?” An insistent voice jerked me back to the present. I turned to find a smartly turned-out Marine, standing rigidly to attention, and wearing a somewhat annoyed look. Perhaps it was just the cold (he wore no cloak or great coat, as I did), that caused him to grit his teeth, making a thin line of his lips. His right hand remained close to his hat and I quickly doffed mine in response to his salute.

  “Yes? I’m sorry. You wanted me?” I could not help but remember how this same scene would have frightened me half to death on Argus back in ‘03, when I was a struggling fourteen-year-old lad, first embarking on his employment as a U. S. Navy midshipman.

  “Yes, sir. Actually, them below wanted you. I am to bring you into the court martial. Follow me, sir, if you please.”

  The Marine turned, assured that the summons of “them below” was sufficient incentive for me to be but half a step behind him, and strode purposefully aft toward the hatch which would take us down one deck to just outside the Great Cabin and the august assemblage within. I made a woeful face, only part in jest, at Lieutenant Allen and stepped off in the man’s wake, catching the wink and nod of encouragement from Henry as I turned.