“If that refugee from Bedlam has pilfered our belongings, Oliver, I believe I shall do bodily damage to him. Moving our chests, indeed! What right had he to do that? Likely thought he’d get away with taking them and be able to refresh his wardrobe, I’m thinking.” Henry’s whisper and reference to the famous British insane asylum told me he had second thoughts about his decision to allow Mister Halethorpe to remain aboard.
Down the ladder we went to discover Mister Halethorpe waiting for us, a purser’s glim glowing weakly in his hand and a mischievous grin distorting his face.
“There ye be, lads; safe an’ sound, jut like I told ye.” He pointed into the open door of the Cabin, and, there, we could see, in the weak light struggling into the room through the filthy glass windows, were our chests. Side by side they sat, lined up square on a deck seam with the precision of a squad of Marines. Unlocked.
“You have apparently been through our possessions, Mister Halethorpe. I hope, for your own sake, there is nothing gone missing from either chest.” Henry’s tone, as he stepped to the front of his sea chest, held enough malice that even I wondered if he would actually carry out his earlier threat.
“Well, not knowin’ whose belonging’s they was, I had me a look-see in ‘em. Never know what might come in handy to a fellow what’s livin’ in such precarious times. Didn’t find much of use, ‘ceptin’ these.” He had stepped to a small writing desk attached to the inboard wall of the room and, with a flourish, opened it to produce and display for us to see, a brace of pistols. Henry’s.
Henry stepped forward, his face changing with alarming speed from horror to anger, to satisfaction in his earlier prediction.
“I’ll have them, Billy.” He stuck out his hand to take the weapons. “Is there anything else you found that ‘might come in handy to a fellow’— something perhaps from my colleague’s chest? Hmmm?”
“Not so much as ye’d be thinkin’, I reckon. Just this wee sticker was all I found in the lad’s chest.”
He placed the pistols in Henry’s hand, carefully, then released the belt from around his middle, laying his own pistol carefully on the desk, and opened the ragged coat to reveal the “wee sticker” stuck into the top of his trousers.
“My dirk!” Suddenly the events seemed less amusing. Even though, since winning my commission, I no longer needed it (its place now taken by a sword), my dirk had been through much with me and was one of my very few cherished possessions. I would have been saddened by its loss.
“Here! Give me that you … rascal!” I poked my hand in his direction, taking a step towards him.
He withdrew the “sticker” from his waist, turned it handle first, and returned my stolen property with a rueful grin, again distorting his face. But his eyes, earlier some scarifying, now glistened in mirth.
“And welcome to it, ye are, lad. Reckon me own sticker’s a more useful blade anyway.” From behind his back he produced the largest dagger I had ever seen, including even the ones carried by the Corsairs of the Barbary Coast. And, so quickly I almost missed it, flung it across the Cabin where, with a resounding thunk, it found its mark in the center of the door leading to the captain’s sleeping quarters, some six or seven paces distant.
Neither Henry nor I spoke for a moment or two, taking in the quivering blade and Billy’s back as he strode over to retrieve it. We looked at each other, both clearly impressed by the demonstration. It gave new significance to his earlier brandishing of the pistol.
Maybe he really is crazy. Maybe Henry should invite him to leave, regardless of his “vast knowledge” of the ship and ability to ‘find’ things.
I suspected, from his astonished look, Henry had similar misgivings.
“Now that you lads’re satisfied I took good care of yer possessions, maybe ye’ll let me give you a look-see ‘round my home. Ain’t no one better to do it.” He now faced us, speaking while he restored his enormous knife to it’s sheath on his stern. His demeanor was quite calm, as though brandishing a huge dagger at two naval officers and then throwing it into the door of the captain’s bed chamber was an ordinary occurrence.
“Henry. Should we not check to see what else he might have lifted from our chests? Maybe our weapons are only what he chose to mention.” My urgent whisper fell on deaf ears, dismissed with a casual wave of Henry’s hand.
“Aye, Billy. Let us have our look around, then I think Mister Baldwin and I must determine what is to be done to the vessel, find a crew, establish a schedule with the Navy yard superintendent, procure supplies, our battery, cordage … oh my! There is just too much to list.” Henry seemed momentarily overwhelmed with the tasks ahead of us.
With some effort, he straightened his shoulders, looked our guide in the eye and smiled, a bit ruefully, I thought. Then he added, “Let us see what you will show us. Lead the way, sir!”
He stepped aside to let Halethorpe pass, nodded to me to follow, and stepped into the gundeck passage with all the authority of the first lieutenant, once again restoring my confidence in his ability and leadership.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
By mid-December, the U.S.F. United States had changed as dramatically as anything I had ever observed. While we were still a long way from being ready for sea, no longer was the ship a near-derelict; the wooden roof over the spardeck was gone, as were most of the rats. Heavy wagons laden with supplies and equipment had deposited all manner of necessaries at the pier head, much of which had been manhandled aboard by our newly recruited crew. Now, instead of being covered in filth, broken casks, rotten spars and cordage, our deck was littered in great coils of hempen rope, barrels of tar, neat stacks of canvas sails, blocks of every size and shape, and newly shaped spars.
Below, a seemingly never-ending supply of paint had appeared through the magic of Mister Halethorpe’s vast store of knowledge about “where things was kept” and sailors worked side by side with the less-skilled men of the Navy Yard spreading it liberally over anything that would stand still long enough to receive a coating. Carpenters had re-hung the gunports, replacing those that were beyond repair while Mister Perkins, our new gunner, oversaw a complete rehabilitation of the magazine and shot locker.
Our crew had begun trickling in about a week after Henry and I first came aboard the frigate. Reassigned from other ships, pulled from duty on Mister Jefferson’s gunboats, and recruited at two rendezvous I had established with a pair of “borrowed” midshipmen near the Navy Yard, we had, by mid-December, some two hundred souls, about half of the number we would ultimately need, many of whom were seasoned hands. Officers, too, had reported for duty, including, to my great joy, Judd Devon, my old mate from our days on the Barbary Coast.
He was assigned as third lieutenant and we spent several evenings catching up on each other’s experiences since we had parted company after our return to Boston in 1805. Henry had joined us for a few of these evenings and seemed to enjoy Judd’s company and stories, most of which dove-tailed perfectly with my own. I noticed Henry nodding from time to time at this or that detail Judd mentioned, acknowledging that he had heard it before, quite obviously, from me.
Captain Decatur had been aboard several times, first appearing some two weeks after Henry and I had.
Not an hour after his first arrival, a sailor sought me out (I had been overseeing some work on the orlop deck) and indicated that the captain would have me attend him in the Cabin. As I hurried up the ladders to the gundeck, I tried to brush myself off as best as I could; the work below was dirty and, while I surely did not wear my best uniform, all were so new that any could have passed inspection. Except today working in the bowels of the ship. Of course, that would be the day Captain Decatur would wish me to “attend him.”
I knocked on the bulkhead outside his open Cabin door and was called in.
“Ah, Mister Baldwin. Sorry to have bothered you, but I thought you might have an interest in this. Look around you. What do you see?” Decatur asked me as I stepped in.
“Sir?” I was confused.
What I saw was what I would see in any Great Cabin on any frigate: writing desk, dark wood paneling on the walls, several chairs (some the worse for wear, or perhaps, Billy’s usage), a carved seat built in under the sternlights, now cleaned of their earlier grime, and a large table which could serve as a dining table or work table. There was a mahogany sideboard built into the bulkhead next to the long side of the table. And a fancy-carved door leading to the sleeping chamber, still bearing the scar from a knife wound. In the corner rested a large chest bearing the name of our captain, unopened, in a stark contrast to the way Henry and I had found our chests when we came aboard!
“What do you see, here, in the Cabin, Oliver?” He repeated, a smile now crossing his face. “Perhaps something familiar?” The smile broadened.
I still wasn’t getting whatever it was he wanted me to see. And my mind was still working on the job I supervised below. This wasn’t like Captain Decatur: playing guessing games was something I had never witnessed before, but then, before, had been only a midshipman. Perhaps he reserved the game for his officers?
When I remained mute, Decatur said quietly, “Do you recall, Mister Baldwin, where this ship was built?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. She was built in Philadelphia and launched in May of seventeen-ninety-seven. Her first in command was Cap’n Barry. Sir.”
Why was he asking me for information pretty near every midshipman had studied and learned by rote?
“What you might not have known, Mister Baldwin, was that this was the very ship in which I first sailed as midshipman, back in seventeen-ninety-eight under Cap’n Barry. We sailed immediately following her commissioning for the West Indies to fight the French.” Decatur was smiling; I could hear it in his voice, even though my eyes were fixed on the finely crafted sideboard.
And, as he spoke, the dawn broke and, finally, I realized what he had been getting at earlier. I looked around the Cabin again, this time with a more knowing eye. And now, I smiled too.
“Sir. I see it now. Thank you for pointing out my father’s work. I should have recognized it at once. I recall, now, when he told me about the work he did for Cap’n Truxtun at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, and especially on this vessel. She was one of his favorites and he felt honored to work on a Humphries ship. And now that I think about it, I believe he took me to see her during the spring of ninety-eight, while she was fitting out. Just before she went to sea for the first time. And no, sir; I did not know you had been a midshipman in her. This must be a bit of a homecoming for you, then.”
It had all come flooding back to me: Father’s joy first at being commissioned to do the finishing work in the Cabin and gunroom of this great ship, his unflagging enthusiasm during the process, and his delight at taking me, a youngster of eight or nine years, aboard this great warship, the largest in our Navy. I offered the captain an acknowledgement of his first warship a bit absently; my mind was completely focused on the graceful curves of mahogany just across the room.
Carefully, I stepped to the sideboard, cast a questioning glance at the captain, who nodded his acquiescence. I ran my hand across the top, noting a few scratches in the finish, but nothing that had damaged the fine inlay work just inboard of the edge, a trademark with which my father had been particularly pleased. And when I opened the center drawer, there on the left side, carefully done and clearly visible, was his plate, showing his name and Philadelphia as his place of business. I smiled again.
“Yes, sir. This is surely his work; his stamp is just there, in the drawer.”
“Yes, Oliver. I found it also. I had thought this … all … was your father’s fine craftsmanship, but that plate confirmed it for me. That is when I sent for you. It must be a special treat for a son to sail in a ship his own father had a hand in building!”
“It surely will be that, sir. I can only imagine how surprised he will be when I tell him I have discovered … well, you have discovered … his work. I have already written to him and Edward that I am assigned in the frigate, but I had quite forgotten that Father had a hand in her building. Thank you again, sir, for showing me. If there is nothing further, sir, I shall return to my duties.”
“By all means, Mister Baldwin, by all means. And thank you for responding to my summons so quickly; I was most excited anticipating your reaction to all of this. You have not disappointed!” Decatur turned back to whatever it was he had been doing before my arrival and, I assumed, immediately put me out of his mind. I left.
The captain had been aboard only a week, exerting his influence into every area of the ship and Navy Yard, when he received word that his mother was severely ill and not expected to live. He immediately hired a coach and departed for Philadelphia, where he arrived in time for a final good-bye. Another week to bury her, deal with family matters, and make arrangements for the disposition of her estate (his father had passed a year or so earlier), and he was back among us, driving himself unceasingly in, I assumed, an effort to overcome his grief. And he brought greetings from my own mother and father. He learned that my cabinetmaker father had secured some fine work in the Navy Yard at Philadelphia restoring several ships to their original condition. A joy it was for me to hear and, I am sure, for my father to carry out.
Decatur had accepted Billy’s presence with reluctance, bowing to Henry’s argument that the strange, off-center wharf-rat had been most helpful and would speed the tasks ahead with his unerring sense of avoiding the pitfalls of Navy Yard bureaucracy. The captain did, however, impose a condition on Billy’s continued presence: he must be cleaned up and made to look presentable. The patched and dirty greatcoat vanished, the horse pistol as well, and, with a shave and a proper haircut, the man became, of a sudden, a different person.
Without the beard, his hawk-like nose was even more pronounced and emphasized his sunken eyes. Eyes which he could change moment to moment as the mood struck him; they could be flat and apparently unseeing one instant and then, in a flash (should something have provoked or amused him), those same eyes would sparkle, almost glow, in a wild demonic way that was reminiscent of old Seth himself. And of course, he still had the heavy brows, which he oft times used most expressively, and the paucity of teeth, but with clean trousers and coat, he seemed a good bit less scarifying, especially to the younger lads in our crew. And he still called our first lieutenant by his Christian name.
Gradually the ship was taking shape; with the gunports restored, the hull could be painted and the landsmen among our crew, under the watchful eye of our bosun, Jack Comstock, a Nantucket man who had been to sea since a boy, stages were rigged over the side and a fresh coat of black paint applied to the sides. Decks were holystoned, the stores and furniture scattered about being moved as necessary, and by late January, United States looked almost presentable.
Still needing attention were the rig and the hull below the waterline. The rig needed new hempen shrouds and stays, topmasts and t’gallants fitted, and yards crossed; the hull needed recoppering. This latter would demand that the ship be moved and heaved down to allow the yard workers to pry off the old sheets of copper (what was left of them) and apply new sheets of the thin metal to protect us from the ravages of worms and other sea creatures that would, in the course of time, eat the wooden bottom right out from under us. And the masts would receive their due attention when the frigate was moved to a berth alongside the shear hulk that could lift and place our masts. To my knowledge, no decision had been reached by either the yard superintendent or Captain Decatur as to whether new masts would be stepped or the old ones spruced up and left in place.
Of major concern to the captain and, I should add, Henry Allen, was still the matter of our guns; the frigate was designed to carry a main battery of twenty-four pounders—thirty-two of them mounted in carriages on the gundeck—and twenty-four forty-two pounder carronades with their slides, both on the spardeck and below on the gundeck. Additionally, Captain Decatur wanted half a dozen eighteen-pounder long guns set forward on the fo’c’sle deck and aft on the poop as
, respectively, bow and stern chasers.
He personally had visited the civilian foundry under contract with the Navy, which would cast the barrels, and had spent considerable time overseeing their construction. There seemed no detail too petty for his attention when it came to our guns; he eyed the molds, watched as the iron was melted down to a flaming, white-hot liquid, and poured into the form, which ultimately would produce the armament we would need. Each evening, on those days he visited the foundry, he returned to the ship exhausted, his uniform filthy, and frequently, his skin red or blistered from the heat of the process.
Some days, when Captain Decatur was involved in another aspect of our re-commissioning or attending the Secretary of the Navy with another of the endless reports the Secretary required, Henry Allen would take his place at the foundry, sometimes including me in an effort to “expand my education.”
I can only imagine what the netherworld is like from the preachers and elders I have heard propounding on it’s miseries, but short of watching the frigate Philadelphia burn in February 1804, I suspect that the foundry was as close as anything that exists in our world. The heat assaulted us from the moment we entered the establishment; the air was choked with smoke—smoke laden with sparkling embers and bits of ash. The combination made it impossible to breathe without a wet kerchief tied across one’s nose and mouth and I quickly discovered how the captain’s uniform became so soiled and his face reddened and blistered.
Men moved about in this hellish atmosphere like spirits, the clothes and faces coated in white ash, heavy leather gloves protecting their hands, kerchiefs tied about their mouths. They seemed to drift through the building, materializing suddenly from the thick fog of smoke, soot, and ash. At times the noise all but precluded talk, and from time to time, one or another of the men would give an order in a voice loud enough to be heard over the din, when suddenly the racket stopped, leaving his voice unnaturally loud and, sometimes, provoking a wry comment from another. I was awestruck.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 28
