In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  “Aye. But ‘fool’ is too kind. Did you know there was already a move by some of his fellow officers to have Decatur put him ashore? I can think of no one who would have any truck with him. But, here are our ales. Let us drink to better times. Perhaps to joining Decatur in his new assignment!”

  Henry raised his brimming tankard and smiled. I did the same, saying, “Aye, better times … and perchance some action!”

  We drank, talked, and eventually we enjoyed some quite non-descript food. The sun was low and more lamps had been lit in the tavern to counter the fast approaching darkness when we heard a commotion by the door to the establishment. Chairs scraped as people rose to see what the fuss was about and voices were raised both in query and anger.

  “Out of my way! Can’t you …”

  Overridden by, “Here, now. Let go of me!” in a gruff voice.

  Crash. And immediately following, more chairs scraping, feet on the hardwood floor, some quite rapid, while others seemed to move more leisurely. And a flow of men, Naval officers, sailors, and civilians of every stripe, pushing toward the growing hubbub.

  Naturally, Henry and I stood, the better to see over the throng, and then, curiosity having won out, picked our way among patrons of the tavern and a few overturned chairs, in the direction of the clamor.

  We were jostled and shoved and, at one point in our somewhat unsteady passage, I was almost knocked off my feet, saved from an ignominious pratfall by my friend’s grabbing my arm.

  “Well, there’s a surprise!” Henry’s voice was almost gleeful when we had maneuvered to a position where we could see the cause of the disturbance. “Never would have thought ol’ Stoll would be rolling about on a tavern floor. Or engaging in fisticuffs, either, for that matter!”

  And indeed, that is exactly what I saw when I got close enough to part the wave of humanity and pry myself into the group encircling two figures: one in the uniform of a navy lieutenant and the other, wearing most of the checked shirt and rough trousers of a drayman. The two figures, entwined in an embrace born of a surfeit of spirits, struggled on their knees to hit one another. Few of the thrown punches landed; Stoll’s were ineffectual from the start and the drayman, bigger and surely stronger than his adversary, was frustrated in his attempts by what could only be an abundance of ale.

  Suddenly, and no doubt thinking he had achieved a decisive advantage, Lieutenant Stoll stumbled to his feet and drew back a leg to deliver a kick toward his opponent’s unprotected face.

  As he did so, a roar went up from the spectators, voicing their disapproval of this tactic and caused the lieutenant to hesitate just long enough in his delivery to allow the drayman to clap onto the arriving foot, twist it, and, at the same time, lift it up, rising to his own feet as he did so. The result was unavoidable; Stoll went over backwards, describing a somersault as he rolled out the open door and down the two steps to the road.

  Another roar from the crowd, only this time, it was mixed with laughter and applause. Somebody detached themselves from the throng and slammed the door shut, effectively cutting off our view of the loser before we determined whether he had survived his backwards tumble down the steps. But, for the men in the room, it put a period at the end of the sentence and, without a further glance at the door, those who had witnessed the fight were competing to clap the drayman on the back as they moved him back into the center of the tavern amid raucous and ribald congratulatory comments.

  It is with some sense of shame that I admit Henry and I both joined in the applause, but we did move to the door, after the wave of celebrants flowed past us, to check on our shipmate.

  Who, laying in a heap unbefitting his station in life, was already being administered to by a person, apparently a passerby, in naval uniform. As his back was to us, neither Henry nor I could identify the Samaritan who knelt over the prostrate lieutenant.

  “What do you find, sir? Is our friend seriously wounded?” Henry inquired, drawing a glance from me at his choice of words.

  The fellow started, focusing as he was on Peter’s inert form, and rose. It was Dan Mallory!

  “I was just about to see if you gents were still in residence here when a body fell backward out the door … almost knocked my own self down. Then we’d a both been lying there in the street!” Mallory laughed and I realized that, in addition to whatever had taken place at Missus Featherstone’s, he had had more than a taste of spirits and was something less than sober.

  “Well, how is he? Is he conscious, at least?” Henry’s question hung for a moment, unanswered and then, before Dan could give voice to his, perhaps, muddled thoughts, the inert figure on the ground stirred, groaned, and, with some considerable effort, sat up.

  Stoll shook his head and looked around, still unsure, it seemed, of how he had come to be sitting in the dirt street. His gaze finally focused and settled on the three of us.

  “Wh … what … how … mercy! My head hurts! What happened?” He struggled to find his voice.

  “Well, Peter, it appears as though you picked a bad time to start an argument with that wagoneer fellow. Seems he took some exception to you pushing him out of your way. Do you not remember the fight?” Henry was enjoying this. I could not help but smile my own self, though I did my best to hide it.

  “Fight? Oh … yes. I do remember that rude fellow. Big, he was, as I recall. Wouldn’t let me pass.” His memory was improving with every passing moment.

  “Aye. And you must have decided to give him a shove. A shove which, I reckon, he took some exception to.” Allen continued to smile at his messmate.

  “Then he just hauled off and punched me. I defended myself, I guess.” Stoll rubbed his cheek where some lividity had already begun to show. “But not too well, I’d surmise from where I sit!” He even smiled as he looked about him, perhaps seeking the supine form of his adversary. “What happened to him? Did I do any damage to his person?”

  “Not that we could tell, sir. Though we only caught a glimpse of the man in the throng that surrounded him after the … scuffle. And he is still within the tavern with his mates.” I answered my superior and managed to hide the smile while I did so.

  Henry offered a hand to his fellow officer and, after a moment’s reflection, Stoll took it and, with help, managed to stagger to his feet. He swayed for a bit, whether from the excess of spirits or the effects of his most recent activities I could not discern.

  “Are you alright, now, Peter?” Henry’s question was less from concern, I thought, and more from a desire to move on.

  Stoll was silent, shifting a bleary-eyed stare from Henry to Dan to me and then over our shoulders to the door of the Jolly Anchor.

  Could he actually be considering going back in there? That big fellow would beat him senseless, given the opportunity. And Stoll surely needs nothing more to drink!

  “Oliver: I have to talk to you. You won’t believe …” A lurch and muffled cry cut off Dan’s whispered entreaty.

  I turned to the source of the cry and saw Peter Stoll, a stricken look on his face, bending double and clutching his stomach. Then he unceremoniously vomited his dinner and a great quantity of ale into the street. The three of us stepped back quickly and turned away.

  “I think he will be able to navigate on his own; at least he is on his feet. We have little reason to remain with him.” Henry spoke quietly to Dan and me, gesturing with his head that we should move down the street.

  “Do you think he will be able to get back to the landing on his own, Henry? As much as I detest the man, I should not want us to be responsible for him coming to some further grief.” I practically choked on the words, but, as I had been taught all my life, sometimes we have to do things we might not like.

  “To the Devil with him! Perhaps he will fall into the harbor and drown. Or get himself run over by one of that drayman’s colleagues. That would surely make the Gunroom a happier place!” Henry’s vitriol surprised me, even knowing his feeling about Stoll. I guess my face showed it.

  “Oh
come now, Oliver. I am only teasing; I would not wish ill on a shipmate, even this one! We shall steer him to the landing as you wish … as soon as he finishes decorating the street.” Henry’s comment was born of guilt, not comradely responsibility. And it was punctuated with continued sounds of retching.

  “All right, let us get this done. You two each take an arm and try to keep him from falling down again. The landing is not far.” Lieutenant Allen took command and, assuming Dan and I would jump to carry out his order, stepped around the putrid puddle, and strode purposefully down the street.

  “Oliver … Oliver!” Mallory’s whisper, directed behind Stoll’s lolling head, caused me to look at him and, in so doing, to stumble over a loose cobblestone. I relaxed my grip on Stoll’s arm to catch my balance and, in so doing, removed my support from the larboard side of my barely conscious superior. Which created a pronounced list to larboard, which culminated in Stoll’s landing in a heap on the street, Midshipman Dan Mallory on top of him.

  “Look out, Oliver! Help me get him up. And watch where you’re going!” Dan was scrambling to his feet, using the supine form of the lieutenant for leverage.

  Together, we stood him up, shook him some to return him to wakefulness, and, half dragging, half guiding him, tried to hurry after Henry, who had not paused or even broken his stride one bit during our brief escapade.

  God was smiling on us that night, as when we reached the landing, there was one of Chesapeake’s boats waiting at the pier. We loaded our burden into the sternsheets while the cox’n and his crew looked on with bemused expressions.

  “You may cast off, Cox’n. Have the watch on the frigate help you deliver Mister Stoll to the Gunroom, if you please.” Lieutenant Allen issued terse orders, obviously eager to be shed of this unpleasant duty.

  “Should you gentlemen wish to continue to enjoy your liberty, you are welcome to come along with me. Or not—suit yourselves.” Henry shot us each an inquiring look, then turned and headed up the quay.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Gentlemen, when I tell you it was glorious, wondrous even, it does not begin to describe it. That lovely woman, Monica was her name, as I mentioned, was skilled beyond comprehension. She …”

  My mind drifted away as I looked about our quarters, taking in the expressions of my friends, which ranged from mild interest to abject boredom. Dan had been holding forth for most of the morning, recounting of the events of his afternoon the day before and most of us had had our fill. I noticed that several of my messmates’ eyes had glazed over, even the ones who initially had been nearly drooling at some of the details. Even I, who had seen the ‘lovely woman, (and was captivated by my own enthusiastic imagination) had begun to lose interest. We had all heard his story start to finish at least once, and those with more patience, several times. Our cockpit Lothario had the unfortunate habit of restarting his tale each time one of his messmates stepped into the room. With little to do—and Dan knew it—few of us could dream up a credible excuse to leave and so were trapped to listen, once again, to the story of his amorous adventure.

  It was a welcome relief, then, when Lieutenant Rowe stepped through the doorway, interrupting Mallory’s third (or was it the fourth?) retelling of his tale, and causing all of us to leap to our feet.

  “Lads, the officers of Chesapeake have been invited to a ball tonight. Of course, that will include you midshipmen. Uniform will be dress and you will be at the break in the bulwark at three bells in the first dogwatch to go ashore. Save the duty section, of course. Carry on.” Rowe smiled at our reactions, turned, and left as quickly as he had arrived.

  “A ball? I don’t want to go to some ball; I want to pay Missus Featherstone a visit.” David Mosley whined, causing a great round of guffaws.

  “Missus Featherstone’s? What would you do there, Mosley? I doubt she’d even let you in, save to cart out the rubbish or run some errands for her or the … em … gir … ladies” Silas Taggart, who, I noticed had not joined in the general merriment at Mosley’s remark, merely smiling thinly, almost snarled at his shipmate.

  The laughter stopped immediately, most of us staring slack-jawed at the normally taciturn Taggart.

  “David, you might find the ball most enjoyable. I am sure the food will be good. There’ll be music and, of course, there will be ladies there, too. Of a higher quality, I suspect than what you might discover at Missus Featherstone’s. You’ll have a fine time, I assure you.” I tried to make the evening sound like fun to my younger colleague, but I fear it might have sounded a bit thin, to judge from the looks I received from our messmates.

  I wasn’t too keen on going my own self, but I would surely not admit that to young David. I did not fancy standing around watching my superiors dance and cavort with the ladies in attendance while I clearly, by my uniform, was insignificant and scarcely worthy of notice, let alone conversation or a dance. But the first lieutenant had said we would be there, so there we would be. Except the duty section, and I wasn’t going to volunteer to take the watch on board Chesapeake when I could go ashore. Even to a ball! And who knows, I reminded myself, it might turn out to be better than I anticipated.

  With Dan’s story told and retold to the point of exhaustion, I brought up my encounter with Lieutenant Stoll, to the amused interest of my colleagues.

  “When he landed in the street, in a heap and a most unfitting demeanor, Lieutenant Allen and I rushed out to determine his condition to find Dan, here, leaning over Stoll’s prostrate form.

  “At first we didn’t smoke it was our shipmate—thought it just some Samaritan who happened by—but Stoll came to and Dan turned to us. You can imagine our surprise at the discovery! After all, a stranger wouldn’t have known what a wretch Mister Stoll was, but a shipmate would surely have and might have just passed him by.”

  “Oh no, Oliver. Even I would not leave a mate, even Stoll, lying in the street. ‘Sides, I was not quite on an even keel my own self, and in a fine mood, as you might imagine!” He leered suggestively drawing further comments from our audience.

  “I saw Mister Stoll this morning; didn’t look too good to me.” Taylor Scott chimed in. “Had quite a mouse on his eye and a scab forming at the corner of his mouth. No one asked him, at least within my earshot, what might have brought such damage about, though. Can you imagine his reaction should one of the sailors have voiced such a thought? They surely noticed him, though; saw a bunch of topmen smirking behind his back. By their gestures, I suspect they likely figured he’d brought it about his own self!”

  “I’d warrant the officers gave him a bit of grief in the gunroom at breakfast today.” Taggart spoke for the first time since his earlier outburst, drawing laughs all around. “Wonder what tale he concocted to explain the wounds.”

  “Couldn’t have been too far from the truth, you ask me,” I offered. “Henry Allen was right there for the fight and his unceremonious landing in the street. In fact, it was Lieutenant Allen who insisted on our bringing him to the landing and getting him into the boat.”

  “Aye. Would have loved to be listening to that bit of chatter!” Mallory chortled. As did we all at the thought.

  The balance of the day went by without further incident or argument. We did discover that Silas would be aboard the frigate for the night, having the misfortune to be in the duty section. And I discovered that he had, the night before, visited Missus Featherstone’s emporium himself, though he chose not to share with us the details of his experience as had Dan Mallory. He likely would have not been comfortable at the ball in any case, having come from before the mast and more than likely, inexperienced in the ways of society.

  Chatter at dinner in the cockpit—from the few of us aboard doing bits and snatches of work, studying, writing letters or reading—centered on the ball, our expectations, or lack thereof, and, as luck would have it, a mercifully shortened reprise of Dan’s earlier tale, complete with ribald comments, jeers, and good natured chiding. And, it was noted with smirks and giggles, that no one had obs
erved Lieutenant Stoll about the decks.

  After the meal, we brushed our uniforms, blackened our boots, and polished our brass. It was important to make as good an impression on the fair damsels of Newport as we could, after all! And at the appointed hour, the four of us who would attend stood at the break in the bulwark waiting for the boat crew to pull around from the stern.

  As midshipmen, we went ashore first, followed by the officers—they rode in the cutter—and last by Captain Decatur, who, of course, came into the quay in his gig. His crew put on a smart display of oarsmanship as they approached and his cox’n made a picture-perfect landing exactly at the stone steps where the captain alighted to join his officers for the short walk up the quay.

  Two carriages were already in attendance for our transport to the ball. Each was dressed with banners in red, white, and blue, apparently in honor of our captain’s reputation, won especially in the late trouble with the pirates of the Barbary Coast. It was common knowledge that he had distinguished himself in that conflict, but should any have been unaware, the decorations pinned to his jacket, even were one not aware of their specific significance, bore silent testimony to his deeds.

  The matched pairs of horses—one pair was as white as the driven snow, while the other two were dappled grays with dark manes and tails—were pawing the ground, throwing their heads, and behaving in a most anxious manner. The skipper of each coach did his best to keep his chargers under control, as least while his passengers boarded. And, except for young David Mosley, all of us made it aboard our transport without incident; David chose the exact wrong moment to put his foot onto the step and, when the team—it was the grays—found some slack in their reins and lurched ahead, Midshipman Mosley made a most ungentlemanly remark and landed, seated, in the street.

  His face turned scarlet as he realized that his words were uttered— shouted, actually—well within earshot of our captain, whose reputation for limited patience with such outbursts was of high renown. Whether more embarrassed over his pratfall or expletive is unclear, but he scrambled, more cautiously, I think, into our carriage, taking his seat next to his friend Taylor Scott, who covered his giggling with his hand, only to receive Mosley’s elbow in his ribs. And off we went behind the spirited horses, which drew us at a fine pace away from the piers, through tree-lined streets, past stores, chandleries, taverns, and eating establishments, and finally, into an area of dwellings, some quite run-down, which I took as an indication of Newport’s strained economic condition.