During the late evening, Barron called the officers and midshipmen into the Cabin. He sat at his desk, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his jacket thrown over a chair. His normally round face was drawn and, while he wouldn’t have stood upon any of our entrances, he sat very still, casting nary a glance at any of us as we arrayed ourselves before him. His hands remained folded in front of him with two fingers forming a steeple. I noticed his breeches still showed the crimson stains I had seen earlier, immediately after our surrender. Overhead, we could all hear the sounds, hammering, thumps, muted shouts, of the work necessary to bring the vessel into condition sufficient for sailing the fifty or so miles back to Norfolk. It made a telling counterpoint to the silence that pervaded the Cabin.
After allowing us to read Admiral Berkeley’s order, the British captain’s letters and his own response, he asked our opinion of the day’s events. Charles Gordon, Captain, at least in our minds if not that of the commodore, spoke first.
“Sir,” he began, cautiously. “Your … action spared the effusion of blood, beyond that which was already lost.”
Barron nodded and looked next at our first lieutenant, Ben Smith, who looked impassively back at him, then shifted his gaze to the darkness beyond the quarter gallery windows. He remained mute. Barron’s gaze didn’t waver nor did he change his expression.
“We have disgraced the flag!” Henry Allen spoke in a quiet, obviously strained tone; his effort at self-control seemed more to underscore than hide the humiliation and rage that still consumed him. And even though he did not raise his voice even a little, his contempt for our commodore’s action was plain to all.
Now Barron’s eyes, indeed, his whole body, snapped around to face Allen, but he said nothing, preferring to fix the lieutenant with a blistering stare. His arms trembled, whether in an effort at self-restraint or anger, I knew not, but his whole body spoke eloqueritly in reaction to my friend’s words, words which we all thought but had not the courage to speak. I was proud to know Henry and even prouder still when he did not flinch a single muscle in his being, but rather stared straight back into the commodore’s glaring eyes.
“Hmmph! That will be all. You are dismissed.” Barron’s icy tone left no room for question and, as one, we all stood and filed out of the Cabin. Little conversation followed, save a few carefully guarded smiles and nods to Henry for expressing what we all had felt.
Thanks to light and contrary winds, we were employed for two days making our way back to Hampton Roads where we set our starboard anchor in seven fathoms at a half past the noon meridian on the twenty-fourth of June.
CHAPTER TWO
The Dream had returned. I awoke in time to hear four bells chime indicating two on the clock in the middle watch. Despite the winter cold and damp that permeated the entire ship, including the midshipmen’s cockpit below the gun deck, my tangled bedding was soaked in perspiration and my nightshirt a sodden mess. Sweat ran down my face and back the moment I sat up to swing my legs onto the deck. I shivered as the cold, stale air hit me and, as I dropped to the deck, I grabbed my great coat off the peg by the door and wrapped it around me. Having been visited by the Dream many times (though happily, not recently until tonight), I took the only course which, in the past, had allowed me to clear my head; I sat at our mess table.
There was a dim pool of warm, yellow light thrown by the well-trimmed lantern hanging to one side of the table. With the wick turned down so low, it emitted hardly any smoke at all, and enough light to identify chairs and seachests. The shadows cast by the lantern’s glow danced in an exaggerated imitation of the small movements of the lamp itself as the ship swayed gently against her mooring lines. So consumed with my plight, I barely noticed the shapes of the shadows, nor did I particularly care whether or not I sat in the light or the dark.
Gradually, my heavy coat offset the chill I had earlier experienced and, while my physical being grew more comfortable, my inner one remained as tangled as had been my bed linens; for, try as I might, I could not cast the images from my muddled brain, images that, in their horror, had dragged me up to consciousness from a sound, but evidently restless, sleep. The Dream had not held me since the early fall; in fact, it seemed to go away about the time the repairs to the cruelly wounded frigate were complete. And now, it was back in all it’s vivid awfulness and just as sharp and frightening as ever it had been: our encounter with the British man-o’-war.
Except that, in the Dream, the events played out as though all the elements of it were underwater; each of the iron shot that slammed into Chesapeake was clearly visible, leaving the muzzles of the English cannon in great gouts of fire and smoke, coming at us, languidly floating through the air, and the splinters that flew into my shipmates’ flesh seemed almost to drift from the bulkhead as the ball struck, and make their way in a most leisurely manner into the men nearby. I would try to scream and push them aside, but to no avail as my screams and my own movements mimicked those of the splinters and balls. I saw Henry Allen receive his soaking in the gore of the sailor who took a twenty-four-pound ball in the chest, marveling that each droplet of blood and shard of flesh moved slowly, effortlessly, and in exquisite detail. This was perhaps the most chilling part of the Dream as I had not actually witnessed the original event, only the aftermath. My trip to the magazine for a powder horn was chaotic, even more so than the actual, and made me cry out in anger and frustration. Instead of the clutch of seamen gathered at the magazine, there were hundreds, all pushing and shoving, ignoring me completely, blocking my way and causing me to waste precious time in fulfilling my mission. All the while, balls from the British ship pounded our vessel unmercifully, wreaking havoc far worse than what we had, in the event, experienced. The horror of it was so real, so vibrant in it’s detail, that even here, in the midshipmen’s mess at two in the morning, I could taste again the noxious, sulphurous smoke that blew down on us from our antagonist. My nose wrinkled as I again smelled the freshly spilled blood and again my own bile rose to my throat in protest of the revulsion that seemed to consume me.
In each repeat of the Dream, when Henry and I came topside, we found, amid the shambles of the spar deck, the commodore and Captain Gordon standing on the quarterdeck, laughing hysterically and pointing at our tormentor, even closer in the Dream than it had been on that frightful day last June. Not only was my Dream peopled with my fellow Chesapeakes, but also with random faces from my past: James Stevens and Thomas Wheatley (now both dead) from Enterprise, my brother Edward, still draped in the chains of his captivity in Tripoli, and even the master of the academy I attended in Philadelphia before becoming a midshipman. Edward moved about the gundeck, clanking his chains and exhorting us to hurry our preparations lest the Tripolitan corsairs board us, as they had his own ill-starred frigate, Philadelphia.
Must have been telling the story at the court martial I mused, trying to make some sense of why, after so long an absence, this dreadful nightmare had chosen now to pay me a visit. Thinking about that shameful day and dredging up all the horrifying details had refreshed the memory and now here it was again. I tried, in vain, to think about other things, pleasant memories like my reunion with Mother and Father after returning from the Barbary Coast. But that, too, held unpleasant associations; Edward was still captive in that dreadful dungeon, held by the Bashaw of Tripoli, his fate uncertain. While my parents were delighted at my return and welcomed me with open arms to their fine house on Held Street in Philadelphia, Edward’s absence east a pall over what might have been a joyous occasion. Other happy memories flashed through my mind, only to be pushed away by the vivid memory of the Dream and the actual events that had incited it.
I turned my mind to yesterday’s court martial proceedings. After I had told my story to a silent and attentive panel, interrupted only by the scratching of Barron’s pen and that of his lawyer as they took notes of my tale, Mister Tazewell, who had been resting his backside against a table throughout most of my monologue, stirred himself and stepped to his earlier posi
tion in front of me.
“Mister Baldwin. That is a recitation worthy of a youthful memory. Pray, in your opinion, was Chesapeake able to fight beyond the firing of your single gun? After the surrender, I mean”
I at first had thought his remark about my memory a compliment; after brief reflection, the reference to my youth caused me to bristle silently. I was eighteen years of age (nearly nineteen!) and well-seasoned by my four years of service. Surely few would mistake me for the raw fourteen-year-old who sailed in Argus! I recognized the heat rising in my neck and face and struggled to overcome the perceived slight. A deep breath helped.
“Yes. Unquestionably she could fight. Which is why Mister Allen and I, along with everyone else aboard were so stunned that we had surrendered.” I controlled myself and answered in an even tone.
“And why, do you imagine, were not the other guns fired? Were they not loaded prior to leaving port as would be expected?” Tazewell continued.
Do I imagine? I did not imagine anything, you fool. I know why they did not fire. The gun crews had little idea of what to do or even where they should be. We had no powder up even had the sailors been at their stations. Calm down, Oliver. Getting your dander up ain’t the way to answer. Deep breath, now and just answer the question.
With a conscious effort, I calmed down, though my insides continued to churn.
“Yes, sir. They were indeed loaded. We had no match on the gundeck and few powder horns. Or cartridges, for that matter.” I answered evenly. “And the deck was lumbered with stores.” I added.
“Very well. To your knowledge, was any report of the incident you have just described, beyond that of the commodore, sent ashore?” Mister Tazewell spoke quietly, perhaps sensing my well-disguised (I thought) reaction to his earlier comment.
It seemed a strange question to pose to a lowly midshipman until I remembered the paper with his account of the action that Henry had asked us all to sign. I had been reluctant until I saw the scrawl of Lieutenant Ben Smith, our first lieutenant prominently at the top of the list of those who had already signed. I nodded to Tazewell.
“Aye, sir. I believe a letter was sent to the Secretary giving an account of the attack. It was carried ashore by the doctor … Doctor Bullus, and Captain Gordon in the pilot boat the very afternoon we returned.”
“And who wrote this letter, Mister Baldwin?”
“Sir, I am not sure. But I believe one of the officers wrote it.”
“So this was different and apart from Commodore Barron’s official report of the affair?”
“I assume so, sir.” I knew what the letter had said; Barron would not … could not have called for his own arrest for his negligence.
“Very well, Midshipman. During your telling, you mentioned that you saw Captain Gordon on the gundeck carrying several cartridges for the long guns. Are you quite sure of that?” Tazewell studied my face for a reaction to being questioned on a detail on the day’s events.
“Yes, sir. Quite sure, indeed. But he left them and ran topside immediately the shooting started.”
“Did you think it odd that the commanding officer would be dashing about the gundeck laden down with powder cartridges with the ship about to go into action?”
“I was surprised to see him there, sir. But things were so confused and we were all quite befuddled that I don’t recall what I thought at the time. I might not have thought anything … or had the time to.”
“Very well, Mister Baldwin. That’s all I have for now. You told a very complete story, I think.” Tazewell actually smiled at me and turned to sit at the table reserved for his use.
“Mister Taylor. Any questions for Midshipman Baldwin?” Captain Rodgers’ deep voice summoned my next interrogator, the civilian counsel to the accused, from the commodores table.
“Indeed. Mister Baldwin: that was a fine recounting of a sad affair.” Taylor spoke quietly as he rose, ponderously, from Barron’s table to stand facing me. The chair groaned, as if relieved to be shed of his weight.
I studied the man’s round, florid face, noting the deep-set eyes which seemed to study me with the same intensity as I watched him. His red-veined nose, prominent on his face, along with the roundness of his cheeks, seemed to make his eyes recede even further into his skull. I wondered idly if this man ever laughed … or even smiled. His paunch was contained by a straining waistcoat. The thought of his buttons shooting off the garment when he took a breath made me smile, but inwardly, as grinning like some fool at this point would serve only to do me ill.
What more could! possibly offer? I have told them everything I can remember. Not likely to forget any of it for a long time, either!
I watched Taylor for some sign of what was coming. Was I about to be on the receiving end of a broadside? My stomach, quiet now for so long, began again it’s rumbling and churning, threatening once more to cause me embarrassment.
“Are you familiar with the signal flag codes of the Royal Navy, Mister Baldwin?” Barron’s counsel again spoke quietly, quite matter-of-factly, as though we were two friends chatting during a casual encounter.
“No, sir. I am not at all.” Why would he be asking me about British signal codes? I am sure they are as closely guarded secrets as our own are.
“I believe you mentioned that HMS Leopard got underweigh in response to orders from HMS Bellona, did you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet, you just told us you were not familiar with the signal codes used by the Royal Navy. How did you know the flags you saw on Bellona were, in fact, telling another ship to carry out some action?”
“Well, sir. We saw the flags on Bellona answered by Leopard which then won her anchor and made sail. Seems logical that was what the flags had meant.” I felt a small trickle of wetness make it’s way down my back and realized that under my short pigtail, my neck was quite wet.
“But you didn’t know that at the time, hmmm?” Taylor continued to press, leaning closer to me.
“No sir, not actually.” The trickle of sweat on my back was joined by rivulets down my sides. Both of them.
“Did the signals mention anything about attacking your ship? Or did you not know that either?”
Rodgers banged his gavel and spoke. “Mister Taylor, you may find that type of badgering to be productive in a civilian court ashore, sir, but I will not countenance it here. Midshipman Baldwin has already indicated that he is not privy to Royal Navy codes.”
Taylor merely glanced at the panel, nodded his head, and continued.
“When you came onto the spardeck, Mister Baldwin, where did you observe the commodore to be standing?”
“He was on the quarterdeck, sir.”
“And how would you describe his spirit at the time?”
“His spirit, sir? I am not sure what you mean.”
“Was he hiding, sheltering from the action? Was he in control and in command?”
“I was not on the deck during the action, sir. I was at my post on the gundeck. And not in a position to see the commodore. When I came topside after the firing had stopped, he was standing on the quarterdeck giving orders to lower a boat and man it. He was not hiding, sir. He did seem to have been hit during the shooting, sir, as I noticed on his breeches some bloodstains.”
“In fact, bloodstains that, while he made little of the wounds that caused them, were the result of sufficient damage to his person to keep him bedridden for four months after returning to Norfolk.” Taylor raised his head, scanning the panel and the gallery, and his voice, making his point about the commodore’s bravery ring in the otherwise silent room.
After a lengthy pause, during which not a soul moved nor made any sound, he again returned his attention to me.
“Mister Baldwin,” he had lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, so quiet I had to strain to hear. “Did your responsibilities include ensuring the guns, at least those over which you had charge, were ready to fire, save the delivery of shot and powder? Hmmm?” He stared at me, looking down
his plump nose and over the spectacles, now lodged at the end of it.
What is he trying to do? Put the blame on me for our inability to return fire? It was one of my guns—and Henrys—that did fire. The only one that did. I had nothing to do with the cargo scattered all over the decks!
Unable to contain myself, I said as much, though my tone was calmer than certainly I felt. “Sir. The guns in my charge were ready to fire. In fact, one did. My responsibility did not include stowage of deck cargo; that would have been taken care of by the first lieutenant and the purser. And while it would have been convenient to have the firing locks installed prior to leaving Norfolk, it was not my place to give orders of that nature to Gunner Hook. The guns were still able to fire using the old method of touching off the powder with the use of slow match or loggerhead.” I stared back at him in a manner that some might have called both impudent and rude; certainly in a way that I would never have dared only a short four years ago!
“Yes, of course. Well, then you are to be commended for firing the gun.”
“Sir. It was not I who fired the gun; it was Lieutenant Allen who managed that. I only helped.” Taking undeserved credit went against all I had been taught as a child.
“Oh, very well, Midshipman.” His tone sounded quite exasperated. He slowly removed his spectacles and studied me for a moment; his lips formed a thin, straight line in counterpoint to his round face. Then, he shifted his glance to a sheaf of papers he held, squinted his eyes and, ultimately returned his eyeglasses to his nose.
After a moment he looked up and addressed me again. “I believe you gave testimony to the effect that you were assigned recruiting duty at …” He paused, leafing through the pages he held while he consulted his notes. “Oh yes, Missus Pickney’s Rooming House. A rendezvous, was it not?”
Where was he going with this?
In Pursuit of Glory Page 5
