When I returned to the quarterdeck, the captain was waiting, his face taut with anticipation as he paced the windward side. Immediately I stepped off the bulwark, he turned to me and stopped his pacing.
“Well, Mister Baldwin? What have we found? I suspect it might be a day or two early for the convoy to appear, but perhaps a straggler, hmm?”
“A single ship, sir, it is. Full rigged and still hull-down to her tops’ls. No flag that I could make out. Possibly a warship, to judge by the set of her sails. All taut and pulling. I would reckon a merchant might be a bit sloppy in that.” I doffed my hat as I made the report.
“Very well, then. Let us find out who she might be. Crack on every stitch of canvas Mister Worth might find and be after her.”
I acknowledged his order and bellowed for the sailing master, who, as it turned out, was standing but three steps away from me. My embarrassment faded as quickly as it had appeared, and I gave him the captain’s instructions.
“Mister Reynolds,” Decatur ordered my midshipman, “show a signal to the flagship that we have sighted a ship and will investigate.”
It was unnecessary to tell Rodgers, sailing in President some half a league to our weather, about the sighting; his own lookouts had also spotted the ship. Even as our hoist, hastily prepared, was climbing to the cro’-jack yard, a bright string of flags broke out from President’s main yard telling the others and us essentially the same thing; we would all pursue the unknown vessel.
President and Congress quickly took the lead in the chase, our Old Wagon living up to her nickname. Even Argus had no difficulty in keeping up. But regardless, we inexorably all drew closer to the ship. She was indeed a frigate and broke the British ensign as quickly as her captain determined he was being pursued. Rodgers bore down from time to time to offer his iron to the Royal Navy vessel, but each time, his shot fell short and, by bearing off from the course, he lost ground, not only to the chase, but also to us. And each time President fired, the British frigate returned the fire with her stern chasers, equally ineffectively, but she maintained her course, crowding on sail to make good her escape. While this dance was progressing, United States continued to hold her course, advancing on the flagship and the chase. Soon we had caught up to the fleet, now outstripping the brigs as we pulled ahead of President. Decatur got himself into the mizzentop with his glass.
“You had better get yourself down to the gundeck, Oliver. I will relieve you here.” Henry spoke quietly to me, sending me to oversee the battery below.
Earlier in our training, I had been assigned the spardeck guns, bow-chasers and quarterdeck guns and carronades, assisted in my duties by Midshipmen O’Donahue and Ben Reynolds. Peter Cochran, after some instruction from Henry Allen, won the main battery, a result of his seniority, according to Henry. With him on the gundeck were Tom Good-water and Midshipman Harold Holt. I sensed that the first lieutenant, realizing that we were about to fight, had changed his mind, preferring to have Cochran on the spardeck where Henry might oversee his actions. Shooting at floating targets was one thing, shooting at an enemy ship who would be shooting back, quite another.
As I ran below, I expected the order to open fire at any moment; the British frigate had already offered a dozen rounds from her own stern-chasers, though we had been unable to tell at which of us she might be firing, so poor was her aim. I moved among the gun crews, each chafing to join the fray. Tom Goodwater, in charge of the after larboard and starboard long guns, six to a side, grinned nervously at me, while words of good cheer, confidence, and eager anticipation from the men greeted me at each gun. I smiled, clapped a few of the men on the back, and continued my tour of the gundeck, ensuring that each of the long twenty-fours were fully manned, stocked with ample powder and ball, and had slow matches lit to back up the sometimes balky firing locks. When I arrived at the forward-most guns and saw the look on Holt’s face, I grew concerned; the young man was ashen, withdrawn, and oblivious to the swirl of activity about him.
Few of these lads have ever seen a shot fired in anger, much less had some-one shooting back at them! I wonder how much enthusiasm they’ll be show-ing when the first British ball crashes through our side and they see their mate skewered by a splinter!
I admonished myself for my doubt, thinking that’s your job, Oliver. Keeping them in their employment regardless of what’s happening down here. Besides, Henry and I trained them; they’ll be as good as ever they might. And remember, there is none in the American fleet who can match our gunnery for speed or accuracy.
A bit of self-doubt crept into my thoughts. But no one has ever shot at them before! No way to train ‘em for that. But just the same, I reckon I had better stay close to Holt. Looks as if he might be about to jump out of skin.
The Lord alone knows how he’ll react when we start taking enemy ball into our hull
But the excitement and joy they felt at now being able to put two years of training to practical use was contagious and, in spite of my own experiences, I became infused with their confidence. But why were we not bearing off some to open our larboard battery?
Clearly, I could not simply step up to the quarterdeck and inquire of Captain Decatur why he had not ordered us to fire. Instead, I made my way back to the forward battery on the gundeck and peered out one of the larboard gunports, listening to the gun crew voice my own concerns as I did so.
“What’s happening out there, Mister Baldwin?”
“Why ain’t we goin’ at ‘em?”
“Looks like they’s in range, least of the bowchasers. We gonna shoot them Brits?”
Of course, I had no answers for any. I continued to crane my neck around the barrel of the cannon. Then I saw all manner of jetsam floating towards us; barrels, spars, and even two boats drifted by, one swamped and on its side, the other looking ready for use, its painter dangling uselessly from the ring on the boat’s bow. The British commander was jettisoning unneeded equipment to lighten his ship! Would it make a difference? Would one of us (unlikely now to be United Stated!) be able still to catch up to him? Why hadn’t Decatur fired when we had the chance?
All manner of questions raced through my mind like leaves in a fast running stream, tumbling over each other in their haste to be answered. In the midst of this chaos, it occurred to me that outside it was becoming darker.
We hadn’t been at quarters long enough for it to be getting on towards dark.
I pulled my silver watch from my waistcoat and saw that indeed, it would not be dark for at least another three hours; the weather was taking a fast turn for the worse.
Just what we need now! That Brit will run into a squall and disappear. Hope we can close with him right quick!
Thunder, mistaken for gunfire and causing some to duck involuntarily, followed close behind the darkening sky, and then came the rain. Still watching out the gunport, I watched as the force of the rain beat the easy sea into a calm, the surface no longer white-capped, but now, dappled with deep pockmarks surrounded by overlapping rings where each teacup-sized drop landed. It would not last that way, I knew.
The wind increased—I could feel the frigate leaning to starboard as the force of the gale pushed her tophamper toward the sea. A bucket slid across the deck, joined by an unsecured ramrod and sponge. A cry from a gun captain sent a sailor scurrying after them as more items necessary for our employment slid down to the starboard side, drawing a laugh from the gunners who had had the foresight to keep control of their own equipment.
We remained at our stations for another two hours by my watch, until it was apparent to even the most unskilled of us that we would not engage in combat today. As if in confirmation of the muted complaints from the men, we heard, over the continuing sounds of the storm, the Marines drum beating out the roll that would secure us from quarters and send the men to their supper, a meal they would gladly have forsaken in favor of joining into a contest with a British frigate.
As I made my way to the gunroom for our own supper, I wondered what had caused u
s to abandon the chase. I knew the captain would not give in except in extraordinary circumstances; he was spoiling for a fight more than any aboard. The storm, while surely unpleasant, was not sufficient to break off the chase. Had Rodgers and the others continued, but our stately Old Wagon was simply unable to keep up? Goodwater had joined me as I made my way aft down the length of the gundeck.
“I thought we had him, Oliver! What happened? Why did we stand down? Was it the storm? I wouldn’t have thought the cap’n would let that stand in his way of engaging.” Tom’s anxious look betrayed a new feeling in him. The conflict he had earlier felt about the war when it loomed was gone and in its place was a naval officer’s spark and hunger to meet the enemy face-on.
“I have little more idea than you, Tom. Henry had the quarterdeck during the chase; perhaps he can illuminate us. I am sure the cap’n must have offered him something by way of explanation.” My confusion matched that of my junior colleague. Why indeed?
Cochran sat at his customary place and in solitary splendor at our mess table. Haskins, the gunroom steward, had yet to set out places or any food and Peter’s hands gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white from the effort. From the hunch of his shoulders, I could see he was uncomfortable in the motion of the ship; he did not sway with it, as would a sailor, but instead, fought to remain in one position, tensing his arms and shoulders to counteract the movement of the ship around him. His color was, while not quite gray, surely not normal and when we first entered the space, his eyes were closed.
“Mister Cochran, sir. Are you quite all right? You look a bit peaked.” Tom spoke, his amusement at the second lieutenant’s obvious distress barely contained.
Peter opened his eyes and peered at us, trying to determine who had violated the tranquility of his misery.
“Oh, my God, Goodwater! Of course I am not all right! Here we are, first wallowing and then being bounced about by this dreadful weather; enough, it is, to put anyone out of sorts, and you ask if I am all right. Look at me, hanging on for dear life just to keep from being tossed about this miserable little closet we are forced to endure!” The plaintive tone was a far cry from the imperious, haughty one we had so often heard.
“Oh, sorry sir. I hadn’t noticed the weather was so bad. We’ve certainly seen worse!”
“Aye, worse indeed, but this is bad enough. Would that I had never let the Secretary talk me into going back to sea! I thought the change would be salubrious to both my career and me. Oh, how wrong I was! Oh, how wrong. I cannot do this; I must return to Washington City. For all the annoyances there, at least the land stays still under one’s feet. Those things I complained about there were petty indeed, compared to being thrown about in the belly of this infernal vessel!” Cochran dropped his head into his hands, releasing his grip on the table to do so, but as quickly as he found some solace in the position, the ship lurched and he returned them to their relentless grip on the security of the fixed table.
He closed his eyes, his position now returned to what it was when first we entered. Clearly, the conversation was over!
But not for long; our first lieutenant strode into the wardroom wearing a frown most foreboding. But when he noticed Cochran and his condition, the frown vanished like a puff of smoke in a fresh breeze.
“Hullo! What have we here? Peter, are you not well? You seem … well, a bit under the weather.” Henry glanced at us, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Oh my God! Can’t you people just leave me alone? I am wretched. And yes, the weather is the cause of my misery. The weather and this wallowing hulk of a ship! Beyond human endurance it is to be trapped in such desperate conditions!” Cochran’s voice was now more a moan than anything we had heard before.
“Well, do not worry yourself about it; I am quite certain this little bit of weather will not last beyond three days. Rarely does, at any rate.” Henry’s solicitous tone did little to eclipse his words, and the wink he offered Tom and me caused us to look away, hiding our smiles.
Cochran noticed none of it and merely groaned, repeating how miserable he felt.
“Maybe, Peter, when we return to port you might ask Cap’n Decatur for leave, or a transfer back to Washington City. I’d wager he’d be agreeable to such a request.”
“I may not last that long, Henry. I am feeling worse with every passing moment.”
At that moment, Haskins entered the wardroom with a steaming tureen of fragrant fish chowder. Fragrant to all of us save Peter, who opened his eyes as the smell registered and, covering his mouth with both hands, ran from the room, nearly knocking Tom Goodwater into my sleeping quarters as he passed.
“Well, Haskins! What delectable treat have you found for us this evening, hmmm?” Henry winked again at Tom and me, this time, provoking a laugh from both of us.
“Grand timing, I’d warrant! Listening to him moan throughout the meal would have been insufferable for all of us.” I offered through my laughter, then grew serious as I turned to face my superior. “Henry, what was it you were so angry about when you first came below? You looked ready to take off someone’s head, you did!”
“I am as frustrated with this unfortunate weather as Peter, just for a different reason. That little frigate we were chasing just disappeared into the squall. I’d wager a month’s pay he tacked or wore immediately he could no longer see us and neither the cap’n nor Rodgers has any clue as to where he might have run to. Plus, with his heaving overboard all his spare yards, boats, and, I am certain we saw him jettison at least two of his anchors, he has lightened his ship so we, most certainly, have no chance of overtaking him. President might, if Rodgers can find him, but we’ve lost time already trying to guess where he’s gotten himself to.” Henry emphasized his words and frustration at missing out on what might have turned out to be the first action of the war by pounding his fist into his open palm.
“Why did we not fire when we had the chance, Henry? It looked from the gundeck that we were in range of him at least for a while.” I had to know. Henry seemed more likely to share out the answer than would the captain.
“You saw what happened to Rodgers when he fired. He bore off to open more of his broadside and each time, lost more ground to the chase. The commander didn’t want to engage until we could range alongside and give him the whole battery. Would have made short work of that little Brit, had Decatur managed to get us up there, but when the chase started heaving over everything that wasn’t nailed down, he began to pull ahead and then that squall came in. Guess it wasn’t meant to be for us today.” Henry sounded a bit wistful, to me. “They’ll be others, I assure you. Plenty of opportunity for a good fight, before this is done!” He finished.
As we sat at the table, absent of course our second lieutenant, Henry suddenly looked up. “In case anyone cares, it was Belvidera.”
“What was Belviderai?” Tom asked in all innocence.
Henry simply looked at him for a moment. As the silence grew heavy, Tom seemed to become a bit uncomfortable, as though he had made some serious gaffe.
“The frigate we chased, I’d reckon, Tom.” I offered, guessing correctly what Henry had had in mind.
“Oh.”
To Lieutenant Cochran’s great relief, the weather moderated before the next day dawned and, realizing we had been drawn far from our intended course by the chase, Rodgers made the correction and the squadron once again headed to the northeast, still hoping to catch up with the British convoy.
It was several days later that we passed another returning American ship and learned that the convoy had been spotted off the coast of Newfoundland. Immediately, the signal went up turning the squadron in that direction.
A day and a half later, we began encountering garbage in the water; the coconut shells and orange peels we saw littering the surface gave us a visible indication that we were indeed on the right track and, most likely, gaining on our quarry.
And the next day, President took, without a shot fired, the British armed merchant
brig Dolphin and learned that the convoy, consisting of eighty-five merchant sail and escorted by a single two-decker, a frigate, sloop of war, and a brig, had been sighted only the evening before still on course for the English Channel.
Rodgers took the squadron to within a day’s sail of the Channel before he wisely decided that our relatively light force would be no match for the Royal Navy, should they be tipped to our presence. We tacked about, heading south for the Canary Islands and the Azores, hoping to encounter a few lone merchants or warships we might take.
We all knew the captain was less than happy when we reached Boston on the last of August. We had, as a squadron, managed to capture just six British merchant vessels and one American ship, which was under a British prize crew. We arrived in Boston to discover great celebrations in progress along the waterfront, which, at first, we thought might have been in recognition of our limited success. They were not.
Edward’s ship, United States Frigate Constitution, had returned to Boston only hours before we did, victorious after a single ship engagement with HMS Guerriere, during which Captain Hull’s gunners pounded the Royal Navy frigate into matchwood, leaving not even enough to sail in as a prize; the hulk was burned and sunk. I could scarcely wait to get myself over to Long Wharf, find my brother, and hear of his marvelous victory.
That night, I found Edward with some of his messmates in a waterfront eating establishment, surrounded by a large number of the good citizens of Boston, all as eager as I to hear their tale. Immediately he spotted me, Edward left his group, pushing through the raucous throng, and steered me to a table a bit away from the celebration.
“It must have been thrilling, Edward,” I began. “I cannot imagine what a duel between two equals like that must have been! Please, tell me all. I can barely contain myself with envy over your brilliant victory.” As I spoke, the publican placed two brimming tankards in front of us, indicating over the noise that they were free of charge, as would our meal, should we wish to eat.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 36
