“The little rascal disappeared in Revenge and Oliver and one of his officers spent nearly an hour, scouring the ship, before they turned him up, hiding in a stores room. He was actually trying to stow away!” Ann laughed her delightful laugh as she told me of Matthew’s antics.
Missus Perry appeared, on the arm of Captain Perry. She smiled at me and spoke to her children.
“Our carriage is waiting. Say good evening to Mister Baldwin and come along.” Then she turned to me. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Baldwin. I trust I shall see you again before long.”
“Oh yes, I certainly hope so. And it was a great pleasure to meet both of you and your family. I shall look forward to meeting Ann’s older brother at some time in the future.” I bowed to Ann’s mother and extended my hand to the captain. He took it, looking me in the eyes.
“I enjoyed your tale of the attack on Philadelphia, young man. And I am sorry to have insulted you with my earlier remark. You are the type of lad I would wish to have under my command, were I still thought useful by our Navy. A good evening to you, sir.”
And they left. Ann turned once, looking back at me, and smiled. I grinned back at her, feeling foolish, but was quite unable to help myself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Henry Allen and I had the watch, midnight until four in the morning. The ship was under easy sail, riding pleasantly to the long swell of the Atlantic, as we made our way down the coast of Long Island. Stars lit the heavens, and the moon, now on the wane, added it’s gentle glow to night, making it not difficult at all to see all the way to the bowsprit as it described it’s arc across the sky. Neither of us had spoken in some time, not out of any animus, but simply as there was nothing much to talk about. And we were enjoying the peace and quiet of the night, listening to the whisper of the wind through the rig and the gentle burbling of the water as Chesapeake’s bow parted the seas. A cluster of men, the sail-handlers of our watch section, sat or leaned on the spardeck gun carriages, smoking and yarning quietly. Their cheroots and pipes glowed briefly in the darkness and, from time to time, described a bright arc over the side as one or another finished his cigar.
After a lengthy silence, Henry spoke. “I have been meaning to ask you, Oliver, who was that most attractive young lady I noticed in your company aboard last week? I keep meaning to bring it up, but have either not had the chance, or in the press of getting the repairs done and getting the ship underway, quite forgot. You seemed most attentive to her.”
I had taken some good natured teasing in the cockpit about Ann’s visit to the ship after the ball, as well as my reluctance to participate ashore in the adventures my colleagues from my mess enjoyed, preferring, instead, to hire a horse and ride to South Kingstown. Of course, I also had to work on the ship, overseeing some modifications to the great guns and the magazine, as well as stand my watches on board.
But Henry’s question was not asked in the spirit of making sport of me and I answered it earnestly.
“Oh, Henry! Isn’t she wonderful? I met her at the ball and am quite smitten by her. She is so charming and warm, and interested in what I have to say. She has a brother, also named Oliver, who is lieutenant and commands the schooner Revenge. A fourteen gunner, she is. Her father was a captain during that business with France in the last century.”
I knew my enthusiasm had gotten the best of me, but it seemed I had no control over it when speaking—or thinking—of Ann. Which I had done almost nonstop since we won our anchor from the mud of Newport Harbor. Everywhere I went on the ship made me think of her visit; walking through the gun deck would bring back our conversation (how much she—and I—enjoyed the dances we shared the night before) and a visit to the galley made me recall that she had taken my hand as we stepped into the space. That her brother had been present barely signified in my memory.
“Well! Sounds to me like you are some taken with the young lady. But you have not told me her name, Oliver. Her brother’s, certainly, but not her Christian name, nor her family name. Is it something you wish kept secret?” Henry’s tone had a smile in it. A glance at him, lit by the reflection of the binnacle, confirmed it.
“Oh my goodness, not a bit! Her name is Ann … Ann Perry. And her brother is Oliver Hazard—Perry, of course.”
“I know Oliver Hazard! A fine officer and well qualified to command that schooner. Sailed with him in the Mediterranean with Bainbridge. During that unpleasant time the Dey of Algiers forced us to carry his tribute to the pasha in Constantinople. Dreadful humiliating, it was. Perry was a midshipman in George Washington, same as me, then. We was too young and inexperienced to say much, but I can tell you, we spent a lot of breath talking among ourselves in the cockpit about what a disgrace it was, both for the Navy and the United States.
“Course, he was some senior to me, but we got on famously. Very pleasant chap, but terrible prone to getting seasick.
“I had heard he was ashore after the trouble with the Barbary corsairs ended, right about when he passed for lieutenant. I remember thinking what a blessing it was for him.”
Recalling Ann’s description of her brother’s restiveness during his sojourn ashore, I replied, “Well, according to Ann, he hated it. And then he was assigned building gunboats, same as Edward was. Hated that too. Finally got to sea and got his own ship. Couldn’t have been bothered much by the seasickness; he spent the years ashore writing the Navy for a ship. Right pleased, he was, according to his family, when he was assigned in Revenge.”
“It surely appears you have spent some considerable time with Miss Perry. I assume you didn’t spend all of it discussing her brother’s naval career!”
I noted his good humor and chose not to answer his statement. Instead, I simply smiled in the darkness, my mind once again enjoying our bittersweet visit in South Kingstown the day before Chesapeake left Newport. I glanced aloft, seeing her face in the sky and hearing her musical laugh in the breeze.
“Sail! Sail broad on the larboard bow. Appears to be ship-rigged, sir.”
The lookout’s hail to the quarterdeck stopped our conversation and jerked me out of my reverie about Ann Perry. Shattered were the images of the lady and the sounds of her voice. For several heartbeats, not a soul made a sound; only the groans and squeaks made by a ship underway broke the sudden silence and added emphasis to the man’s cry.
“Aloft with you, Oliver. See what you make of her, and back as quick as ever possible, if you please.” Henry handed me his night glass as he spoke.
Who could that be? Well, likely not a concern as we aren’t at war with any country.
I glassed the ship from the main fighting top. Indeed she was ship-rigged. What the lookout had not included in his report was that she was making a course that would cross us, and close aboard. It appeared she was perhaps a league away and making a fair turn of speed, to judge from the ghostly white bone in her teeth. And she looked to be under a greater press of canvas than Chesapeake carried. I slung the glass over my shoulder and hurried back to the quarterdeck to make my report. I noted that several of the watch standers, earlier taking their ease, were now lining the bulwark trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching ship, and no doubt recalling another encounter in peacetime with another ship.
“Jump down, if you please, Oliver, and inform Cap’n Decatur I intend to beat to quarters directly. If this turns out to be nothing, so be it; it will be good training for the men. However, I’ll not be caught short again, not ever. We will be prepared should this vessel have some mischief in mind.” Henry’s tone would brook no delay and I obeyed his order with alacrity.
By the time I returned to the quarterdeck, our commander close in my wake, the Marine was well into the drum call for quarters and I could hear running footsteps pounding on the decks and ladders as men, still groggy from sleep, moved to the battle stations. Gunports were heaved up, clattering against the side of the ship and topmen swarmed aloft, under the direction of the sailing master and bosun, to await the order to reduce our spr
ead of canvas to battle sail.
“What is this about, Allen? Sometimes I think you would do anything to disrupt my slumber. Can you not simply stand a watch, quietly, peacefully, and let those of us below remain at rest?” Peter Stoll’s nasal voice was raised beyond what might have been necessary; I suspect he was aware of Decatur’s presence and hoped that he might curry some favor with him.
“Mister Stoll: had you ever seen action, real action, I mean, you might understand that it is better to be prepared than caught sleeping.” Henry fairly snarled at his colleague.
“To my knowledge, Henry, we are not at war with any at the moment, unless some disaster has recently occurred while I was below.” Stoll answered the snarl with a patronizing tone suitable for a none-too-bright student.
“Aye, Mister Stoll. And in June of ought seven we were at war with none, either. Had you been aboard this vessel then, you might even thank me for going to quarters. Are you prepared to relieve Mister Baldwin of his responsibilities? I see that Mister Rowe is here to assume the deck.” Henry addressed his comment to Stoll but had turned to the first lieutenant as he approached, ready to be relieved.
I noticed that Captain Decatur had missed most of the exchange between Henry and Stoll; he had taken a glass and was midway up the mizzen ratlines studying the approaching vessel.
He returned as Allen and I headed below to the gundeck and our own battle stations. But I did hear him remark to Mister Rowe that the vessel was showing the Cross of Saint George, making her British.
Well then. Most likely, we’re not going to fight tonight. Course, Leopar was British as well and we weren’t at war then, either.
My brain continued to argue with itself as I mechanically went through the process of getting my guns, three on either side of the ship, ready to fire. Matches were lit and stuck in buckets of sand, another of my crew spread sand liberally around the deck to provide traction for us should the deck become slippery with blood, and several others stacked cartridges by each cannon, ready for instant use. Of course, the guns were already loaded, their breeching tackles uncoiled and laid out alongside. Gun captains at each gun used their awls to puncture the powder cartridge already residing in each barrel, and have at hand a quantity of powder with which they would prime the guns.
“Mister Baldwin. Are you ready and is your battery ready?” Henry Allen called to me, his voice carrying easily over the cacophony of the gun deck.
“Aye, sir. Ready in all respects. Sir.”
“Then make your report to the first lieutenant, if you please, and do it personally. I am sending Mister Mosley along with you.”
I saw David Mosley scampering toward me, presumably with the report that the entire battery on the gundeck was prepared, manned, and ready.
When we arrived on the quarterdeck, First Lieutenant Rowe was in conversation with the captain while Peter Stoll stood at the windward rail glassing the approaching vessel. I stepped up to the two seniors and, keeping a respectful distance so as not to intrude in their conversation, waited. Decatur took notice of our arrival—it might have been that Mosley was virtually dancing a jig, so palpable was his excitement at what might develop into his first action—and turned to me.
“Yes, Mister Baldwin?”
“Cap’n, the battery is ready in all respects, sir.” I doffed my hat in a salute as I made my report.
“Mister Allen’s compliments, sir. The battery is ready in all respects, sir.” Mosley doffed his own hat as he repeated my report as Henry had instructed him.
Decatur smiled thinly at the young man’s enthusiasm. “Thank you, gentlemen. I am hopeful our preparedness will be unnecessary. You may return to your duties.”
“Aye, sir.” We replied, almost as one.
Mosley seemed reluctant to return to the gundeck, apparently wishing to linger and watch the developing situation from topside. I saw his glance move upwards, where the shadowy figures of our Marines lined the fighting top, their muskets glinting dully in the moonlight. With a gentle touch on his arm, I steered him toward the companionway. But not before I heard Stoll’s nasal whine announce that the British ship was standing on, unwavering in her course which would likely intersect our own in short order.
“Sailing Master: we’ll reduce to battle sail, if you please.” Rowe’s shouted order carried well forward and was answered with a faint “aye” and the clomping of leather-clad feet as the topmen headed for the rigging.
By the time I arrived at my post, the forward battery on the gundeck, I could feel the ship beginning to slow as she responded to the reduction in canvas. I peered out the open gunport of the forward-most gun. There she was, the bone in her teeth clearly visible in the moonlight, and now not even a mile distant. Her course seemed unchanged. To my mind, unless one of us veered, we would collide.
With our reduced speed, she should have passed clear ahead with little problem. But she must have altered to weather to ensure a confrontation! Why would they do that?
My mind churned with the conundrum, unable to come to grips with the fact that this British vessel seemed bent on ramming us. We were not at war, there was, as yet, no trading between our countries thanks to Jefferson’s embargo, and no reason for this behavior. I looked again through the port. Still she came on, with no slackening of her pace judging from her frothing white bow wave.
“Mister Allen: fire a leeward gun, if you please. NOW.” Rowe’s voice left no doubt in any mind that trouble was definitely afoot, and Decatur was doing his best to avoid a confrontation.
“Mister Baldwin, stand to your gun. You may fire number one. Quickly, please.” Allen’s voice rumbled up the gundeck.
With a nod to my gun captain for both forward-most thirty-two-pounders, already standing by his charge, I relayed Henry’s order to fire.
I watched as he poured a charge of powder into the pan on top of the barrel and jammed a brightly glowing slowmatch, held securely in the linstock, into the puddle of powder. It sparkled brightly, sizzling as it consumed itself, and burned down the touch hole and into the flannel-wrapped charge of powder tucked securely in the barrel. A split second later the cannon roared out, shooting a blinding tongue of orange flame a dozen feet into the night.
After the huge gun had come to rest in it’s breeching tackles, the crew jumped into action, swabbing out the barrel to rid it of any burning embers from the powder, and ramming home a fresh bag of powder and a ball. Finally, the crew heaved around on the side tackles and dragged the dead weight of the wheeled carriage back into it’s firing position with the muzzle poking out through the gunport.
I watched the process long enough to be certain that the gun captain had everything well in hand, then turned my attention to the open port opposite the just-fired gun. I could barely believe my eyes. There she was, barely a pistol shot distant, bearing down on us under a huge press of canvas. I knew every man not otherwise engaged would be watching her progress and wondering, as I was, why she did not alter her course to avoid the almost certain collision that would occur if one of us did not. With the ship headed fair for our larboard bow (which also happened to be on the weather side), he was forcing Decatur to tack to avoid a collision. Wearing or even bearing off would not answer at this point; there simply was not time.
“Topmen aloft! Line handlers to stations for tacking the ship. Lively now, lads. Look alive, there.” The sailing master’s voice carried with it all the urgency needed to inspire the sailors to alacrity. And the sight of the British frigate full and by, heading right for us, surely added to the enthusiasm felt by the topmen and haulers!
I followed a clutch of sailors up the ladder to the spar deck as my sail handling position was aft, supervising the men on the mizzen. By the time I arrived, sheets and braces were in hand, men were almost to the cro’jack yard and I heard the order to “put over your helm, quartermaster.”
Slowly, the bow came up, led by our rakish jibboom, as it described an agonizingly slow arc across the star-filled sky. I shot a glance at the B
rit; still coming on. She sailed as though there was not another soul on the sea. I could not help but wonder, as I am sure Decatur and Rowe were wondering, what on earth the captain of that ship was thinking. They could not miss seeing us, and our leeward cannon, had their lookouts been asleep, would have surely called attention to our presence.
“Tops’ls in hand, sir.” Came the faint cry from aloft, relayed aft by the bosun.
“Back the jibs and stays’ls, if you please, Sailing Master.” Decatur’s voice carried clearly over the noise of a ship tacking, slapping lines, flogging canvas, shouted orders. “Keep your helm over, Quartermaster. Should we miss stays, we will surely be in jeopardy.”
I looked forward again; the jibboom still swung, but more slowly. I saw that if we completed our turn without missing stays, we would escape being hit by the British ship, but only by a whisker. If we missed stays and hung in irons, it was clear to anyone, even a landsman, that we would be struck. And still the Brit came on. I don’t believe there was a man aboard Chesapeake who was not praying, with every fiber of his being, that our ship would complete the tack!
Gradually, Chesapeake followed her bowsprit through the eye of the wind. I could feel the breeze as it now blew over the starboard bow and the ship as she responded to it. Square sails filled, one after the other, with a loud whooomph, and voices were raised, giving orders to sheet them in. I could sense that every man topside finally released the breath he had held, waiting for the inevitable crash; some men I could see were clapping each other on the backs and shouting epithets at the British ship as she sailed by.
“A pleasant good evening to you, Jonathans !” The strong English voice that floated down to us from the deck of the Royal Navy frigate sounded scornful, chiding, almost as if we had passed one another on a clear day with ample sea room.
I glanced at the quarterdeck to see what reaction might come from Decatur and Rowe. I certainly knew what I would do, and likely, what my friend Henry Allen would do as well. But I had no idea what our captain might do.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 25
