In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  Why was he asking me? Aside from the fact that I had, as he knew, sailed with Decatur for a year and more in the Mediterranean, there were others among his brother officers who knew the man, who could answer as easily as I. Was he trying to make up for suggesting I had committed some transgression that would delay my promotion?

  “Mister Stoll: Captain Decatur is perhaps the most honorable man I know. He is fair and even-handed with officer and seaman alike. But he will not tolerate slackers and blasphemers in his ship.” I was pleased to note that the lieutenant seemed to blanch somewhat (he even stopped chewing for a moment) at this. I continued, “He has, to my knowledge, never asked any to do something he would not, nor has he ever taken someone to task for being unable to do something beyond their capabilities.

  “When there is fighting to be done, he has always been at the forefront, leading us and never hanging back to allow someone else to take a risk he would rather not. In fact, on two occasions, which I personally witnessed, he was first over the bulwark and onto the enemy’s deck. I have nothing but admiration for the man.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like you think the chap is perfectly flawless.” The sneer in Stoll’s voice suggested that, while he seemingly had little knowledge of Decatur beyond his reputation (which admittedly, had grown with continued telling of his exploits against the Tripolitan Corsairs), he had already made up his mind that no one could possibly be so grand.

  “Few among us are perfect, sir. But I have found little flaw in Captain Decatur which would suggest we are not in the best of hands.”

  “Well, time will surely tell. Perhaps it is fortunate that we can experience this great man’s skills where there is little chance of confrontation with an enemy.” Stoll offered with a sanctimonious smile.

  Lieutenant Dunne pounced on this remark with a passion that surprised all present. “Mister Stoll. You are entirely too junior in your employment for such an observation. I would suggest to you, sir, that should this ship see action, action of any stripe, we could not be more ably led. And no, I have not sailed with our captain before this commission, but I can think of few I would rather serve under. What Mister Baldwin has uttered is perfectly correct; in fact, I would venture that it expresses the opinion of most who know the man.

  “You might bear in mind, sir, that the Congress of the United States felt sufficiently strong about him to not only award him a commemorative sword for his actions in the Mediterranean, but to promote him, over many senior to him, from lieutenant, not to master commandant, but directly to captain. That, in itself, should speak creditably to his skill and leadership.

  “I would think that your ill-informed opinion and complete lack of experience, save in the coastal vessels you spent your midshipman years in, would quite disqualify you from even offering an opinion.”

  The silence that followed Dunne’s rebuke was startlingly complete; no silverware clanked, no one coughed or even moved and, for several heartbeats, even the sounds of the ship itself seemed to stop. Stoll studied his senior from hooded eyes, determining what, or even whether, an answer might be appropriate. We all waited and watched; some, I am sure, hoped Stoll would respond, while others, myself included, prayed that he would keep his peace.

  After a moment or two, which seemed some longer than it actually was, Stoll smiled, picked up his fork, and continued eating. It was obvious to all that there would be more to this and that Dunne and his (very much) junior messmate would remain at odds.

  “Mister Baldwin is likely the only one among us who is qualified from firsthand experience to opine on our commander. And I, for one, value his judgment. He is also one of the few aboard this vessel who has tasted the steel and grit of an enemy, save of course, those of us who were aboard last June. I would suggest, that despite his lowly status, you might accord him a level of respect just for that alone.” Henry Allen could not resist the opportunity to add support for me—or perhaps it was more to line up against his boorish fellow officer. I smiled my thanks at Henry.

  “Allen, you might consider our respective seniority. I would prefer you to show me the deference I am entitled to.” Stoll spoke through clenched teeth, or perhaps just another mouthful. In either case, the rebuke to Allen provoked another, albeit shorter, silence, broken when Lieutenant Dunne spoke up again.

  “Stoll, at your and Mister Allen’s level of grade, seniority is much like virtue in a house of pleasure—non-existent. I would suggest you be mindful of that fact when you think to be lording it over anyone in the future.”

  This time, Stoll didn’t even look up, causing him to miss the smiles that appeared on almost every face at the table. Including my own.

  Quiet conversations ensued, just a buzz of mumbles from which I could distinguish little, save a word here and there. The disagreeable turn to the meal had extinguished most of the camaraderie and damped the usual good spirits common to both gunroom and cockpit, but the mood was broken by the call to arms.

  Only a few minutes had passed before we were summoned from the last of our dinner by the insistent beating of a drum, sending the ship to quarters. While I did remember to ask permission to leave, it was not until I stood to take my departure. The others, recognizing the call as merely a drill, seemed more leisurely about going to their stations for fighting the ship, preferring instead to finish what food remained before them.

  Lieutenant Allen was first out after me and caught up with me as I stepped off the ladder on the gundeck.

  “That man is a fool, Oliver. Don’t be troubled by his rudeness. What you just witnessed was a continuation of a festering feeling of hostility that has pervaded the gunroom since Stoll came into the ship. In fact Dunne and Joe Ripley have discussed within my earshot the possibility of asking the captain to put him ashore.” Henry smiled at me, adding a friendly slap on my shoulder as punctuation to the comment. “His question about your promotion was simply an attempt to point up his obvious precedence over a midshipman and, more likely, remind you that even when you make the grade, he will still be senior to you.” My friends smile expanded and turned into a chortle.

  “I thought Isaac Dunne did a splendid job of sorting him out on that point. Virtue in a house of pleasure, indeed!” Henry laughed at the memory.

  I joined in with my own grin, relishing the momentary satisfaction at Mister Stoll being properly put in his place. My mirth faded as I realized I had most likely not made a friend in our new lieutenant and, recalled from my boyhood experiences in school that when others sided with an underdog, the underdog frequently suffered the consequences when the others were absent.

  Oh welly I shall deal with that when I must. Can’t think it would be much worse than facing some of the Tripolitan barbarians I did battle with!

  As Henry and I arrived at our battery of eighteen-pounder long guns, we could feel the ship slowing as the topmen and deck crew shortened our sail to tops’ls, spanker, and jib, a usual procedure prior to going into an engagement. The gun captains were already organizing the men and clearing the tackles so the heavy cannon could be manhandled into position for firing. I noted, with some satisfaction, that our training while still at the dock had reaped some benefits; the men at each gun seemed to have a grasp of what they were about, requiring a minimum of pushing, shoving, and shouting from the petty officers.

  What a difference from last June, I thought. Too bad we don’t have someone … no! Bad thought! We don’t need any kind of hostile action now or later. We are not ready yet and the carnage, even were we to be ready, would be grave. Especially should the hostility come from a fifty-gun ship like Leopard.

  Henry was occupied with his six guns to starboard, so I took myself to the larboard side and ensured that the gun captains were as organized and prepared for our dumb show drills.

  BOOM! From somewhere aft, a cannon fired. For a moment, everything and everyone stopped. Looks ranging from total confusion—I suspect my own mirrored the combination of dismay and bewilderment I saw on my superior’s face—to horror and fea
r. Were we suddenly engaged again? Was this a repeat of last June? The smell of spent powder drifted forward, causing some who experienced their first encounter with a live firing to wrinkle their noses and make “smacking” noises with their mouths.

  Then everyone began shouting and calling out at once. “What’s going on?”

  “Who fired?”

  “Are we under attack?”

  “Who ordered us to fire?”

  “I thought this was to be dumb show!”

  And finally, a voice boomed out above the others. “HOLD YOUR FIRE! BELAY THAT!”

  I recognized Decatur’s voice even tinged with anger and frustration as it was. Then the man himself appeared, thundering down the ladder from the spar deck, fire in his eyes.

  “Who fired that gun? There was no order to fire.” The captain stopped at the foot of the ladder, his eyes adjusting to the gloom and surveying the deck before him filled with sailors and officers quite as confused as he was.

  “Sorry, sir. It was one of mine.” The voice floated forward from one of the after batteries and, as I recognized it’s owner, I could not suppress a smile.

  I shot a glance at Henry who obviously had recognized Stoll’s tones even as I did, judging from the grin that wreathed his own face.

  “Mister Stoll. Here, now!” Decatur stood where he had stopped but turned to face aft as he watched Lieutenant Stoll approach. Behind his back, sailors winked and grinned at each other as soon as he had passed their stations.

  When the erring lieutenant arrived at the ladder, he was offering voluble excuses for his error, including something about a “… blasted gun captain.” Decatur simply pointed up the ladder and then followed the officer up. The captain stopped about halfway up and, turning around and bending down to allow his voice to carry, called out, “For any of you that might not have understood, this drill is DUMB SHOW. There will be NO firing.”

  He did not wait to see nods of understanding and smiles of knowledge certain that Lieutenant Stoll would most likely be confined to his cabin for some period. It appeared that I was not the only person in the frigate who had no fondness for our newest officer!

  “All right, you men. Take up those gun tackles and make ready.” Henry’s command was echoed up and down the gun deck. And the air was immediately filled with the rumble of heavy gun carriages being hauled back from the bulwark in preparation for mock loading. (The guns were, of course, already loaded with powder and shot as required when a ship was at sea.)

  The exercise continued for several hours; the guns rolled in and out, spongers and loaders, powder monkeys, and gun captains all sweated with the effort and the officers in charge of the batteries yelled themselves hoarse with proper commands. But by the end of the afternoon, even the men felt as though they were comfortable with their employment and ready for the next phase which would include live firing, hopefully, at a target.

  “Did you see Stoll’s face when the captain sent him topside?” Joshua Belcher greeted me as I stepped into the cockpit. I shook my head in the negative; his back had been toward Henry and me. “Well, I did! He looked like a whipped puppy. All sorry and contrite, he was. And spouting a steady stream of excuses for why his battery let loose a shot! I’d wager a fair piece he done that on purpose to let us all know his guns were ready afore anyone else’s.”

  “What did Decatur do to him? Do you know?” I couldn’t help my curiosity and, I am shamed to admit, my hope that he was suitably punished. We all knew there was to be no live firing today.

  “Aye. Dan Mallory told me—he was on the quarterdeck when Decatur came topside with Stoll—that the captain gave him a righteous tongue-lashing and sent him below. Couldn’t hear all of it without appearing to eavesdrop, but he got enough to know the commander was hopping mad and Stoll’s effort to defend himself and lay off the blame on his gun captain went for naught.” Belcher’s grin broadened as he recounted to me the event. I smiled in spite of myself at the thought of Stoll’s career hitting some rough water. This was sure to do nothing to improve Mister Stoll’s opinion of our captain and for the first time, I was glad not to be quartered in the Gunroom. I was sure Peter Stoll’s messmates would bear the brunt of his bad humor.

  During our evening meal of fresh vegetables and fresh, but quite tough, beef, the conversation seemed to revolve entirely around Lieutenant Stoll’s behavior; his rude demeanor, overt hostility to his juniors, and his fawning subservience to his seniors, coupled with his crowning glory, the unauthorized firing of one of his guns, drew stories from all but young David Mosley who had no experience on which to draw. Mosley sat quietly and ate his supper, consuming his food with the same gusto as our tales.

  Of course, I joined in the fray, recounting my confrontation with Stoll during my dinner in the Gunroom earlier that day. And while I had been taught not to speak ill of someone, especially behind their back, I must admit I took pleasure in being able to add my own offering to the stories of run-ins with the ill-tempered officer told by my mates.

  Dan Mallory got all our attention when he quietly mentioned during a lull in the vituperous diatribe, “I sailed with Stoll in our small frigate Adams on my first cruise. He was one of the senior mids during our ought five and six coastal patrol cruise. And he was just as unbearable then!”

  “Oh, Dan, do tell. We had no idea you knew the man.” Silas Taggart begged in an uncharacteristic burst of enthusiasm.

  “Not much to tell,” Mallory said. “He was obnoxious and over-bearing then as now. Seemed something of a braggart to most of us. Played up to the officers and stepped on any of us who got in his way.”

  “But I’d wager you have some stories to share with us. Was he still aboard when Adams went into ordinary in oh-six? I collect that’s when you were detached?” Belcher had joined the quest for what he had earlier in the meal termed “Stoll Tales.”

  “Mister Stoll spent some considerable time regaling us early in the cruise with tales of his exploits during that business with the French, back in ninety-eight. Said he was with Bainbridge in Retaliation—she was the schooner that Captain Decatur’s daddy captured from the French, you may recall—when they were captured in the Caribbean. Told us horrifying stories of the prison where the crew was confined and the violent action that led to their capture. Held us quite in thrall with the wonders of his own heroic action and, of course, Lieutenant Bainbridge’s faults. Turns out, he never left the Chesapeake all through that action nor saw a shot fired, save in training. We discovered that tidbit from one of the gun captains in Adams who had had the good fortune to sail with Stoll during their time in the Chesapeake.” Dan was warming to his task. He paused, took a long swallow of his claret, and continued.

  “Our senior mid, a grave sort of chap with a most dry sense of humor and a constantly dour expression, mentioned, quite indifferently, one night at supper in Adams during one of Mister Stoll’s numerous recountings of the Retaliation story, that he had heard the only two mids with Bainbridge were boys called Samuels and O’Leary and one of them had expired during their captivity.

  “Well, Mister Stoll about choked on his biscuit. His whole head turned scarlet, not just his face, and he turned on Jeffries—that was the midshipman’s name, as I recall—sputtering and gasping for a moment before he could get out a single word. Finally, when he had caught his breath, he said, ‘Sir. Are you accusing me as a liar?’” Mallory smiled broadly at the recollection, enjoying again Stoll’s bluster.

  ‘“No, sir. I have not mentioned the word, nor any like it. Merely mentioned what most have come to believe from the widely recounted reports of Bainbridge’s capture. Never suggested anything that might confound your version.’ Jeffries did not raise his voice—he never did, that I heard—or change his dour expression. Just stared at Stoll. Course, the silence in the cockpit was most complete. We had all stopped eating and I, for one, practically held my breath waiting for what would come next.”

  Mallory savored the moment, taking another swallow of his wine while we
all waited for him to finish. After a suitable interval, he did.

  “Stoll stood up from the table quite suddenly, giving us all the idea that he was about to go to fisticuffs, or worse, with Jeffries. He threw down his fork with such violence that he broke the plate and, without a glance at any among us, stormed out of the mess. It must have fueled his ire beyond measure when he heard us all burst out in laughter the moment his backside cleared the doorway. It was then that one of the lads came up with the nickname Retaliation for our messmate and a bit later that some of us began wondering what sort of retaliation Midshipman Stoll might have in store for us!” Again, Dan laughed, as did we all.

  During the course of the meal and the “Stoll Tales,” we were so captivated by our own merriment that not a soul among us noticed that the motion of our ship had changed; the earlier easy up-and-down movement had been replaced with a steady larboard heel augmented with the occasional sudden lurch that bespoke a gusting wind and greater seas. It was when a mostly empty bottle of not-bad wine tumbled and rolled across the table, spreading what remained of its contents on the unlucky diners to larboard, that Belcher called our attention to what should have been obvious.

  “Seems like that bit of weather Mister Rowe was talkin’ on earlier mighta begun to show itself. Mayhaps we might be of some use topside.” He stood, pulling his napkin from his shirt collar, and made his way past those of us still at table, heading for the door. He grabbed his jacket from a peg and, turning his body while shoving his arms into their respective sleeves, donned it as he departed our midst.

  It was at that precise moment when our steward chose to appear and the two collided with some force, sending them both sprawling. The event, in the context of our own mirth, caused us all to burst into gales of laughter which neither Joshua or nor the oft-put-upon steward saw fit to share. Both picked themselves up, offered their apologies, and the former continued on his way topside while the latter brought such a sour expression into the cockpit, it was as if he were daring any among us to comment further while he began to clear away the wreckage of our meal.