In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The scene that greeted us on deck as we stepped out of the companionway was quite different from what we had left only a short two hours earlier. The heavens and the sea seemed indistinguishable one from the other; the pewter sky matched the sea in hue and even the lighter gray clouds scudding across the heavenly dome had their counterparts in the white-topped waves that raced down on us from wind’ard.

  The wind had not yet reached the point where it shrieked through the rigging, but the groan of its passage was constant; now a low moan, not unlike a man suffering the ill-effects of overindulgence, and then louder, stronger, his anguish having become barely tolerable. The whole of it, I suspect, was quite unsettling to some of our landsmen, especially when combined with the symphony coming from the creaking, snapping, and screeching of our blocks, yards, and canvas, and the complaints of our hull as the timbers worked and the seas slammed into Chesapeake’s sides.

  I stood with Joshua, watching the waves marching down on us from the east. His trousers were plastered by the wind to his legs and his jacket ballooned out behind him. His unfinished hair whipped around under his hat like a loose buntline caught in a squall and I put my hand on my own hat to ensure it would remain firmly in place. I turned to the west, hoping for a glimpse of the sun which might suggest how near complete darkness loomed, but was unable to determine even a brightness in the low, scudding clouds. I was equally incapable of discovering even where the sky met the sea; the whole of it was simply a heaving gray continuum stretching from the side of our ship to forever.

  “This has the feeling of sticking around for a spell, Oliver. And I’d warrant it’ll likely get worse before the middle watch.” Joshua put his hand on my arm to pull me close to him and shouted into my ear. “We’ll be down to reefed tops’ls by then, be my guess.”

  I had to agree, deferring to his opinion. We both had about the same time at sea, but Joshua had spent about all of his in these very waters while I remained in the more placid (though I didn’t think so at the time!) Mediterranean. This developing storm called to mind the first bad weather I had ever experienced at sea, only a few days out of Boston in Argus while sailing east to join Commodore Preble’s squadron in Gibraltar. And it was positively terrifying to a fourteen-year-old midshipman on his initial cruise!

  “Aye. And I have the middle watch. With Lieutenant Dunne. I wonder what kind of a seaman he might be.” I shouted back to him. Even though I was smiling in the darkness, it did occur to me that, with the exception of Henry Allen, I knew very little of the capabilities of any of our officers. And, of course, Captain Decatur; him I worried not a shred about. But the others? How would they handle this weather? I had seen others, granted, they were but midshipmen, who cowered in what shelter they might find during that storm and others, in Argus.

  Wonder if we’ve got any like that aboard? Wager a month’s earnings it’ll be Stoll, if we do. I made a silent bet with myself, at the same time chastising myself for succumbing to the ease of naming him simply because I didn’t like the man. But I shrugged it off as quickly as the feeling had appeared, and then gave thanks to the Almighty I didn’t have to have him as my watch officer on the quarterdeck.

  Dunne’s got to be a good seaman; he’s too senior to have never had to manage a ship in a blow. ‘Sides, word has it, he’s expecting to be posted to a first lieutenant’s billet before too long. He’ll likely do just fine.

  Belcher had moved forward, staying on the lee side and resting his hand on the lifeline some thoughtful soul had rigged in the face of the building storm. I watched him as he made his way along the deck, his feet sometimes disappearing into a foaming froth as a wave lapped over the bulwark and rolled down the deck. He quickly vanished into the gloom and as I started forward my own self, I became aware that Silas Taggart had materialized from the companionway and stood next to me. I stopped.

  “Looks like we’re in for it, Baldwin. This ain’t gonna ease up anytime soon. I expect I oughta round up a bunch of my sailors and get ‘em ready to hand some of this canvas. Cap’n’s gonna want us shortened down fair quick, I reckon, and he don’t like to be kept waitin’.” He squinted his eyes down and cast his glance aloft, quickly taking in the straining sails, bartaut sheets, bowlines, and braces. I doubted he could see further aloft than the lowers, but to judge from the bend in the fore spar, I could imagine what strain the higher, and lighter, yards must be suffering.

  A faint shout drifted forward, most of it blown away by the now stronger wind and drowned out by the cacophony of the ship’s struggles. I looked aft, peering through the dark and made out a figure alternately waving his arms and cupping his hands around his mouth. Clearly, he was shouting, but nary a word could I discern.

  “That’ll likely be Rowe,” opined my colleague. “Wantin’ to shorten her down a bit already. Perhaps I’d better get back there and find out what he’s hollerin’ about.”

  While my responsibilities in the ship were centered primarily on six of the long guns below, Taggart, in an acknowledgment of his years before the mast, was charged with the task of overseeing the men working aloft, an employment he welcomed (though I can not imagine that that work held great appeal in our current circumstances!). For want of gainful employment my own self, I followed him aft. Going for’ard with seas now breaking more frequently over the deck held little allure and, while I would likely be heading that way soon enough, why hasten the trip unnecessarily?

  Barely had we gained the safer and surely drier quarterdeck than the heavens opened and poured forth rain in quantities sufficient to soak us through and through in only minutes. The heavenly offering was quickly accompanied by a resounding craack of thunder, then another, more sustained, rolling across the sky with the sound of dozens of eighteen-pounder gun carriages being rolled into battery all at once. All three of us, Rowe, Taggart, and I ducked instinctively and, having done so, straightened ourselves back up, each wearing a sheepish grin.

  The smile quickly disappeared from Rowe’s face as he grabbed Silas and me by the front of our now-sodden jackets and, pulling us close to him, shouted, “Get the topmen turned out along with Sailing Master Cheever and Bosun Kelly. Cap’n wants her shortened down to ease the strain on the rig.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” We shouted back in unison. “We’ll see to it at once.” This last added by Taggart even as we turned to make our way for’ard.

  As I made to leave the quarterdeck, I noticed Daniel Mallory, who had the watch with Henry Allen, peeking out from behind the two quartermasters as they struggled with the big wheel which bucked and fought their every effort at controlling the over-canvassed frigate. He looked as bedraggled, wet, and miserable as the rest of us, but there was something else there, too. Was it fear? I waved at him, quite casually, I thought, and received in return nothing, save the concerned expression on my friend’s face. I smiled, hoping it might ease the obvious qualms of my less-experienced fellow midshipman. Henry stood at the rail, glancing from the rig to the raging seas beyond the bulwark, and quite oblivious to the rain pouring off the brim of his hat.

  I caught up with Silas and shouted into his ear, “You find the bosun, Taggart, and I’ll round up Cheever and some sailors.” I saw the watch, sheltering by the mainmast and in the lee of the one of the boats; they would never answer for the task at hand in these conditions.

  He nodded his understanding and ducked into a companionway to carry out my order. I continued forward, carefully, and with a firm grip on the lifeline. The footing was treacherous on the sharply canted and often inundated deck. And the darkness was now complete, broken only now and then by a brilliant flash of lightning which was followed by the crash of thunder, startling even when I knew it was coming after a bolt of lightning had brought a transient daylight to our surroundings.

  I had made some progress for’ard when I sensed, rather than saw, a figure coming at me from the bow. Only when a hand touched mine on the safety line and followed my arm up to my chest, were we close eno
ugh that I could discern my stroke of good fortune; it was Cheever.

  “I need you to gather your topmen, Mister Cheever, and stand by to hand courses and reef the tops’ls. Bosun Kelly ought to be along to help in a moment; Mister Taggart has been sent to fetch him.” I relayed the first lieutenant’s orders as though they came from me. (Lieutenant James Lawrence, First Lieutenant in Enterprise, had drilled into our heads that it was a sign of weakness to preface an order with “the cap’n said …” or the like. “Show that you are a leader,” he often repeated, “and capable of giving orders yourself!”)

  “Aye, sir. I’ll see to it.” Cheever shouted into my face and, his hand still on the lifeline, turned to retrace his steps.

  I waited in the lee of the upturned cutter, lashed to the grating near the foremast, for his return and then to oversee the operation of taking in some of our straining canvas. As a wave washed by me and the rain pelted down, a certain midshipman came to mind, cowering behind a ship’s boat in Argus back in 1803. I stepped out from behind the shelter and, resting my hand on the weather shrouds, (gripping for dear life would be more apt!) assumed a pose of casual competence; this storm wasn’t so bad, certainly not bad enough to warrant a seasoned and senior midshipman seeking shelter in the lee of the cutter! And I spat out the curious salty taste of the rain as it ran unimpeded down my face, the result of the wind-driven spume mixed with the still soaking, blowing rain, which assailed any who dared to venture topside. To any who might have noticed, the act likely added to the illusion of ‘casual competence,’ a sentiment quite remote from my, hopefully, well-hidden concern.

  Forms began to materialize out of the gloom, each slowly taking the shape of a man in sodden coat and tarpaulin hat. Three, then five, then a half-dozen more, Sailing Master Cheever bringing up the rear like a shepherd encouraging his flock through a mountain pass. Though I suspect no shepherd ever sounded like Mister Cheever nor had the volume of voice he possessed!

  A volume rivaled only by the stentorian tones of Bosun Kelly whose voice preceded him through the storm. He, too, had a ‘flock’ of sailors, heavers and pullers including the on-deck watch, who would remain on deck handling the sheets, braces, and clewlines, while the topmen worked aloft in the perilously pitching and bucking rigging. A quick conference between the two warrant officers, with Taggart and me standing by, but keeping our peace, determined a strategy for effecting the sail change, and I sent Silas to the quarterdeck to report our readiness.

  “‘Get it done,’ Rowe said,” Taggart reported upon his return and, with nothing but a touch on various shoulders and a few (likely unseen) nods, the topmen jumped to the weather ratlines and quickly disappeared into the maelstrom of wind-driven rain, spray, and inky blackness, pierced from time to time by the blinding intensity of the lightning.

  Kelly’s men, mostly trained, but surely not in these conditions, took more direction, most of which took the form of the bosun shouting, pushing, and half-dragging frightened landsmen to their positions. I turned in time to see Taggart, now hatless, heading aloft to oversee the topmen—it was his job, after all—while I stayed on deck to help with the heavers when the time came to ease sheets and work the braces around so the bulging courses might be clewed up. Taggart’s comfort on the rope steps of the wildly bucking shrouds stemmed from his several years as an able seaman in the merchant service and he seemed to make even faster progress than did the sailors who preceded him. As he vanished into the night, I turned my attention to the instruction the bosun was shouting into the group of sailors, each of whom maintained a two-fisted grip on the fore sheet, the first of the several lines we would need to ease to enable the topmen to gather in the sail and secure it to the yard where they were, by now, perched, their feet on the wildly swaying footropes while their arms clung for dear life to the yard just above the straining canvas.

  The thunder continued its ceaseless booming, now punctuated even more often with bolts of lightning so bright I could easily see all the way to the end of the gyrating jibboom as it dipped below the wave-tops then rose to an impossible angle, piercing the saturated night sky. And I could see, in the brighter flashes, the topmen at their posts, soaked, hanging on to the tenuous security offered by the yard itself as the wind buffeted them and tried, in concert with the violent motion of the mast, to dislodge each.

  When Cheever’s whistle sounded, Kelly shouted to the haulers and, with the care of men shown the fear of God and His tempest, the sailors gradually eased the straining sheet, allowing the foresail to billow out while another gang of sailors began to haul mightily on the clew lines. Kelly blew his own whistle as soon as the lower corners of the sail began to move inward and up, toward the yard itself. Against the backdrop of the storm and our own noises, I wondered whether any aloft could possibly have heard its shrill blast; standing only a few feet away, but admittedly to weather of its source, I could barely hear it myself.

  But hear it they did—or at the least, someone at the top did—and, as the sail was drawn up toward the yard, flapping and snapping like some wild thing resisting it’s taming, the dozen men along the spar began to draw the sodden canvas to themselves, holding it to the yard with the weight of their individual bodies until a line could finally be passed around the restrained sail. All the while, the wind tore at their forms, working in concert with the seas and the pitching, rolling ship, to dislodge them and send any unfortunate who lost his grip to a certain death, either on the deck or overboard. The process was dangerous in a calm, but in these conditions, even the very act of going aloft required a courage possessed by few.

  Finally the sail was contained and the topmen, on shouted orders from Taggart and Cheever, moved even further up the mast to begin the process of reefing the tops’l. A larger sail and thus more difficult to contain, it was also that much higher up the mast which exaggerated the motions they had suffered while on the fore yard. And I knew the wind was even stronger up there.

  Hang on, Taggart! Even for an experienced hand, a single misstep or weakened grip might easily be your last.

  I strained to see in the flashes of lightning what was happening up there, but the rain quite precluded any satisfaction. And between the often blinding strokes of lightning, the night seemed even darker; not even shapes distinguished themselves from the blackness.

  Over the now shrieking wind and continued crashes, snaps, and screeches of blocks, sheets, and canvas, I heard the faint warble of Cheever’s whistle and only slightly louder, the answering tweet from Kelly’s as the heavers under his command took the strain on the tops’l halyard, sheet, and brace. Unlike the course, the tops’l yard was lowered, the topmen riding it down as they gathered up handfuls of the sail to tie in the reef. Kelly shouted at his men, his words whipped away from my own ears by the wind, but heard by those who needed to, and slowly, carefully, the heavers eased the halyard forward, letting down the tops’l yard and the topmen perched along its length. Another group of sailors eased the sheet and brace, providing some slack in the straining canvas for their colleagues aloft to gather into their bodies. When Cheever blew his whistle again, the reef was tied in to the sail, effectively reducing its size.

  Already I could feel the struggles of the frigate ease and I knew that Captain Decatur’s decision to reduce sail now, rather than after the weather worsened further—and surely it would do just that—was the right one. And as the topmen descended to the deck, obviously tired, muscle-sore, and soaked to the skin from their ordeal aloft, I shouted into the face of the tempest for Cheever and Taggart to get themselves and their men back to the mainmast so they could perform the same death-defying ballet on the higher and bigger main yard and main tops’l. Taggart looked at me and, in the flash of a bolt of lightning, his glance seemed baleful, perhaps even malignant.

  He doesn’t think I have ever been up there in such dreadful weather, I’ll wager. Likely thinks I can send him and his men aloft but wouldn’t do it myself! Well, little does he know; I did it all while I was still only a boy o
f fourteen.

  I made a mental note to mention that to him, quite casually, of course, at some future opportunity. And then I did something I most likely should not have.

  “Silas,” I shouted through the storm to him. “You look beat. You stay with Kelly and the heavers here on deck. I’ll go aloft with Cheevers men and oversee the work on the main.”

  Since I was significantly senior to him, he had little choice but to accede, but I think he might have smiled at me. Whether in relief at not having to fight his way aloft again, or at my bravado, or stupidity, I know not. But we both stepped aft, he to the waist where Kelly was organizing his men and I to the weather rail where I clapped onto the shrouds as the last of the topmen headed up the ratlines, prepared to follow them to the main top.

  The wind, as I gained the first rope step rigged between the shrouds, plastered me against the rigging and required some considerable effort to gain each step. And, while I was not as fast going up as had been my colleague, I made it to the maintop with no misstep or delay. The topmen were moving out on each side of the long yard, carefully testing that each foot was secure in the footrope before moving further away from the relative safety offered by the railed platform at the junction of the lower and upper masts, just above the yard. Sailing Master Cheever stood on the top, as the platform is called, watching his men as a mother might watch a child taking his first tentative steps. The continued flashes of lightning aided his vision, though I am sure he was as blind as I between the bolts.

  After what seemed like an hour but in reality was only a few minutes of balancing on the top (and clinging to the rail with one hand and a convenient halyard with the other), word was passed in to the center that the men had all reached their positions and were ready.

  Cheever looked at me and shouted, “If you are ready, sir, the men are in position.”