The order produced a flurry of activity as topmen swarmed aloft and heavers on deck stood ready to take in hand the sheets, braces, and halyards. Even Peter Cochran, Henry’s junior officer of the watch, seemed caught up in the excitement of the moment as he tried to give orders (unnecessarily) and act as though he knew what he was about.
I stood amidships, currently unemployed, and watched our consorts as they, too, set t’gallants and hauled their wind to make a course to the southern reaches of our patrol area. Sadly, before the watch had ended, they were well ahead of us; Argus, the stately little brig that had carried me, Judd Devon, and Captain Decatur across the sea to the Barbary War, had soon outstripped us, a fact that was surely not lost on our increasingly frustrated captain. I knew what would be coming and was not disappointed.
“Pass the word for Mister Worth and Mister Comstock.”
And once again, the efforts of the previous days were played out and, to our chagrin, with little better result. And once again, I heard continuing references to the Old Wagon. The epithet had grown to the point where the men now referred to themselves as Wagoneers, but only when our perplexed commander was out of sight.
On the third day after joining us, Essex handed her t’gallants and fore-tops’l, allowing us gradually to overtake her. When we drew alongside, her captain once again took up his position on the bulwark, speaking trumpet in hand.
“Commodore: are you experiencing some difficulty? May we be of any assistance to you?”
Decatur fumed. His lips grew white with the effort at controlling his oft-spoken feelings on the sailing qualities of his ship. His glance jumped from our sails—they were set and drawing perfectly—to Essex, and then to the water passing by our leeward side. Finally, he climbed slowly onto our own bulwark, again cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Thank you, sir, for the offer. But no. We have no difficulty save getting a significant turn of speed out of the old girl. She seems unwilling and appears to prefer a more stately pace. You will adjust your own speed accordingly, if you please.”
Without a further look at our consort, smaller, older, and apparently a good deal livelier, he instructed Judd, who had the watch, to maintain his sails as set, and retired to his cabin, still fuming over the humiliation.
Gunnery practice, both in dumb show and in live firing of the great guns, resumed the next day and continued daily for some weeks. During our first day of shooting while in company with the others, Decatur suggested in clear terms to Henry Allen that, as we were unable to outsail even Hornet, we had better perform up to his expectations during the firing exercise.
Of course, this sentiment was passed throughout the gundeck in a somewhat different form than was initially offered by the captain. Each gun crew who hit the floating targets set out, in turn by Argus and Hornet, and did it smartly, would receive an extra ration of spirits that evening. Even the carronade crews on the spardeck received the incentive.
Our long guns fired at a rate not before attained in the ship, and with startling accuracy. Hornet finally showed a signal indicating her captain’s lack of humor at having to replace the barrels that served as targets after each salvo. And it was nearly impossible to determine which gun had actually fired the ball that struck—and often obliterated—the target, so much water was thrown up around each. But after each broadside, the target was gone, only splinters left floating in the wake of our devastating fire. Neither Essex nor Argus, for all their fine sailing qualities, could match our accuracy or rate of fire. The smile on Decatur’s face broadened with each of their missed as he compared the time between broadsides to our own. At the conclusion of the exercise, Essex again drew alongside.
“Your gunnery is most impressive, Commodore. I salute your fine crew,” came the now familiar tinny voice.
And our captain, his delight clear, both at the performance and it’s recognition, shot back immediately, “Thank you, sir. You may rest assured that, should we encounter any mischief abroad, we will engage whilst you make your escape. But until that day, we will continue to practice in live firing as I signal.”
A silent salute acknowledged the commodore’s words. There was little doubt in any who heard who heard them that, while jocular initially, Decatur not only took most seriously our charge to assist American interests being harassed by either British of French vessels, but in face hungered for the opprtuity.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The balance of eighteen-ten passed shrouded in boredom; United states (or Old wagon, as our stately frigate was now known, at least by her crew) completed her first cruise in the company of Essex, Hornet and Argus in November and with precious little to show for it. Cochran remained at odds with most of the officers; the midshipmen were learning their trade at speeds determined by their native intelligence, and our gunnery improved even over the superior level we had demonstrated to our consorts early in the cruise. Tom Goodwater and I became fast friends, sharing stories about our pasts with laughter and a spirit of camaraderie I had not enjoyed with any save Henry Allen and, of course, Judd.
Another succession of patrols were, as expected, all to the south and each lasted from one to three months, taking us into late spring of eighteen eleven. Some were with the entire squadron and others with just one or another of the brigs, but nary a one produced any opportunity for providing assistance to a beleaguered American vessel. In fact, we saw only a small handful of Royal Navy vessels, no French, and one Spanish ship. Our commission continued as before: assist American vessels which had run afoul of British of French warships, enforce the embargo as president Madison had reconstituted it, and curtail ships of any nation engaged in the slave trade. Our gunnery and seamanship continued to improve with each commission, but sadly, especially for Captain Decatur, our only targets were jetsam and rafts put overboard by our colleagues. And our frigate continued to live up to the sobriquet she had earned on her first commission, to the captain’s growing consternation.
Other ships, often commanded by friends of our captain, had experienced contact with ships of the Royal Navy, a fact that ate at Decatur every time he learned of one or another. He often shared incidents with those officers invited to dine or sup with him.
“Oliver,” he started one evening after the light meal had been cleared away and some claret shared out. “You remember Trippe? Served in Vixen during that business with the corsairs?”
“Yes, sir. A fine officer, as I recall.”
Judd, who sat to my right, nodded, adding, “A splendid fighter as well. I recall the day we engaged the polaccas with the borrowed gunboats. Trippe was right in the thick of it. Never blanched in the face of fire.”
“Yes, that would be the same Trippe. Well, he’s been named as commander of Vixen now and, from what I hear, doing a right fine job of it. Faced off with a Royal Navy brig off Havana not long ago. Brits fired off a shot to bring him to and then another into him. Took the main boom with the shot, I’m told.
“Trippe responded, but with little success, and brought his ship to. When the commander of the British brig sent his boat on board Vixen to apologize for his error—he claimed not to be aware of Vixens national character—Trippe sent the officer packing. Told him he would accept nothing short of a written apology. And he got it!”
“Bravo for Captain Trippe, sir.” I actually clapped my hands together, but only once, so caught up was I in the splendid tale of our besting the Royal Navy.
“Yes. Well done, indeed. It sounds as if Trippe exercised fine judgment and succeeded in embarrassing the brig’s commander.” Devon added, again nodding his approval.
“Aye, he practiced moderation, something clearly not called for, gentlemen. Trippe missed an opportunity to remove the blot under which our flag continues to suffer and bring himself and his vessel to honor for doing so. We must not, nay, we cannot allow those … those arrogant … commanders of the Royal Navy to take any advantage of our ships. At some point, they must be taught that we will suffer their indignities no longe
r.” Decatur’s face was hard, his eyes gleaming in the light produced by the whale oil lamps and candles. He had placed both hands flat on the table, as though preparing to rise, but remained in his seat, his shoulders hunched up, and his mouth a thin white line.
“Sir. I wonder whether little Vixen might not have come to grief against the firepower of a brig. As I recall, she carried only a dozen six-pounders against the corsairs. Would that not have been a somewhat uneven matchup? And had he had his ship shot to matchwood … well…” I hesitated, realizing I was on a course set for thin water and dangerous reefs.
“I know what you are saying, Baldwin. But nonetheless, we cannot allow this provocative behavior to continue at their will. And you surely must feel, as I do, that the humiliation of Barron’s meeting with Leopard stands like a festering wound in the breast of our nation.” The captain had relaxed his posture slightly but remained agitated.
“Cap’n, do you not think that President Madison and his politicos in Washington City are endeavoring to bring about a peaceful solution to that problem? I keep reading in the press that envoys are being sent to England as well as France for that very purpose.” Judd offered, obviously in an attempt to restore the peaceful atmosphere we had previously enjoyed.
“Not likely to happen by that means, Mister Devon. Those politicos will get all the agreement and platitudes the Brits can scare up, but in the end, it will have to be a hard lesson for them, if they are to learn from it. Recall, if you please, we managed, barely, to overcome them thirty years ago. And, while our Navy fared poorly in most contests with the Royal Navy, our country did manage to throw off the yoke of colonialism, thanks be to a merciful Lord and General Washington.
“Yet, in spite of that lesson, here they are again; they continue to harass our ships, board and strip crew on the flimsiest of reason, and, above all, gentlemen, let us hold in the forefront of our memories that day in June of eighteen and seven, surely the greatest blot on our national honor this country has experienced. And still the politicians wrangle over some form of restitution or compensation; I fear it is all nothing but persiflage at its finest. How do you suppose they plan to compensate Commodore Barron, not to mention Gordon and the others, for the sentences they received from the courts martial? Or those poor devils who had the misfortune to lose their lives during the contest, such as it was.
“The answer is very simple: they don’t plan to do anything! I suppose, eventually, there will be some form of treaty or other device signed that will satisfy the politicos, who will then slap themselves on the back at doing such a splendid job. But the harassment will not stop, not until we show them we will no longer allow it. You gentlemen mark my words well: we will have to fight the British again.”
Decatur’s angry words cast a pall over the balance of the evening and, scarifying as they were, Judd and I both knew he was most likely right; there would be another war.
It was during the early morning hours a day or two later when Ben Reynolds, who now shared the watch with me, mentioned, quite casually, an incident that had occurred some months back. At the time, we were sailing in solitary splendor some fifty or sixty miles off the coast of South Carolina in our continuing quest for trouble.
“Sir: did you hear that we lost a ship off Rhode Island? Last January, it was I recall.”
I had heard. Indeed, it was Oliver Hazard Perry’s little schooner Revenge that had managed to strike the reef guarding the western reaches of Block Island Sound. The ship was lost and several hands had succumbed in the frigid waters of a New England winter. Ann had written a vivid accounting of the tragedy just weeks after it had happened. To her infinite joy, her brother had been unharmed by the loss, but, as might be expected, would face a court martial or at the minimum, a court of inquiry, just as Barron and Gordon had four years earlier. Needless to say, she felt the weight of his travail and spared little detail of it in her letter as well as in subsequent correspondence.
After several months of expressing her concern for her brother, to which I could respond only lamely, she quit the subject, dwelling on more mundane subjects instead. I had heard no more from her on the court martial and assumed it was still in the offing. I questioned my midshipman for any new details.
“I read just last week, sir, in the paper in Charleston while we were there, that Cap’n Perry had faced a court martial to determine his guilt in the loss of the schooner. The article mentioned they had exon … exc …”
I cut him off, eager to hear the finding. “Exonerated him, Mister Reynolds?”
“Oh, aye, sir. That’s the one I was trying to recollect. I reckon it means he was not guilty, right, sir?” He smiled hopefully.
“Yes, it means exactly that. I would imagine on account of he likely carried a pilot who likely ran the vessel onto the hard. Is that what it said?”
“You must have seen the same article, sir. That is exactly what it said. The pilot had assured Cap’n Perry he would have no difficulty navigatin’ them waters, even in the fog they was in. Seems right stupid to me.”
“What seems stupid, Reynolds? That they exonerated Perry or that the pilot received the blame for the mess he created?” I noticed there had appeared an edge in my voice that surprised me, as well as young Midshipman Reynolds, who recoiled a bit when I confronted him.
“Oh, sir. Not a bit. I meant no disrespect to Cap’n Perry, sir. I meant just that the pilot seemed stupid to be sailing so close to a reef he should have known was there and in the fog. Don’t sound like much of pilot to me, leastways.”
“Aye. I quite agree with that! Likely got what he deserved for losing the ship and sure as not, damaging a fine man’s reputation.”
I had never met Ann’s brother, but as far as I was concerned, he must be a fine man, coming from such a wonderful seafaring family. And having a sister like my Ann.
We stood our watch in silence for a while longer, the midshipman recording the casts of the chip log and taking his regular turns around the deck to ensure all was well. When he returned from one such ramble, he stood close to me, his earnest face reflected in the feeble light of the binnacle, and spoke quietly, almost timidly. Perhaps he was afraid I might again take some exception to questions about Hazard Perry.
“Sir. Why would they court martial a captain when it was the pilot what ran the ship onto the hard? Don’t quite seem right. After all, ain’t a pilot s’posed to know his own waters? It’s what makes him a pilot, I thought. And the account of the court martial in the paper mentioned that the cap’n wasn’t even on the quarterdeck.”
“Ben, the captain is always responsible for his ship. Were I to run afoul of something out here and cause the ship to sink, you may be assured that our own Cap’n Decatur would be facing a court of inquiry and mayhaps, a court martial as well. Course, so would I, and you, too, more than likely.” I chuckled some halfheartedly at the thought. But, in spite of my jocularity, a chill ran down my back.
“But the cap’n’s asleep, sir. Down in the Cabin. Why would they court martial him?”
I resisted the sarcasm that leaped into my head and replied simply, “On account of the fact that he is the captain, Ben. Just like in Haz… Cap’n Perry’s situation. Cap’n’s always responsible for what happens in his ship, no matter where he is or what he might be undertaking at the moment. Just the way it works. So if you want to help keep the cap’n from facing a court martial, do your job and stay alert. “
Satisfied with that answer, and perhaps, as a response to my admonition, Reynolds nodded, and stepped into the darkness at the leeward rail, watching the moonlit water pass down the side until it was time to once again, cast the chip log.
When United States returned to our homeport of Norfolk at the end of May in the year eighteen and eleven, we were greeted with some bad news about yet more Royal Navy interference with American ships; news that seemed to speak directly to the captain’s prognostication of looming war.
The Royal frigate Guerriere had stopped and boarded the American
brig Spitfire at the entrance to New York, taking off a clearly native-born American for service in the British Navy. Newspapers devoted huge amounts of ink to the task of voicing the people’s outrage at this continuing practice, made all the more disagreeable by the fact that the impressed seaman was vouched for as an American and indeed, had carried a legal protection, signed by the collector of customs in New York, proclaiming him as such. Decatur, and all of us, reacted with similar anger and heated talk of retribution.
What we learned several days later, touched off the captain like a flame to the powder hole of a thirty-two-pounder; Rodgers, in Annapolis with President at the time, had sailed to avenge the deed.
“We were at sea and could have been after those rascals in no time at all, had they sent a schooner out with orders! Why would Rodgers be sent? His cruising grounds are well to the north of here!” Decatur vented his spleen to any of us within earshot.
We agreed quite readily, all of us spoiling for a fight as much as the captain. And not one among us dared voice the thought that the incident that prompted some form of retaliation occurred off the entrance to New York Harbor, clearly well within Rodgers’ cruising grounds. It was our— or perhaps Decatur’s—bad luck that put Commodore Rodgers in the Chesapeake Bay at the time.
The captain was chafing to get his ship underway and be after “those royal rascals” to teach them a lesson they would not soon forget. Never mind that we had only just returned from nearly three months at sea and our frigate needed a few of the usual repairs, victualling, and powder to replace that which we had expended for our great gun drills.
Not two weeks later word came into the Roads that President had indeed engaged a Royal Navy ship. The story went that while the British ship had been seen and chased during the daylight hours, darkness had fallen before they were close enough for a hail. When Rodgers hailed, he was greeted with the roar of a pair of long guns and, of course, responded in kind. And then both ships exchanged broadsides. After several, Rodgers realized he was not engaged with Guerriere, the ship he had been sent out to find; the other vessel turned out to be the small, formerly Danish, frigate, Little Belt, mounting but twenty-two twelve-pounders. And he ceased firing. Even after such a short combat, the lightly armed Brit was no match for President’s twenty-four pounders; Little Belt suffered eleven killed and twenty-one wounded.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 34
