And that was the last we saw of our friend Peter Cochran! He rode to Mandarin sitting in the sternsheets of the quarterboat as stiffly as when first we had seen him arriving aboard United States on that rainy day with the captain back in Hampton Roads.
Mandarin made sail even before our boat was back aboard and United States and Argus continued to sail to the southeast in the hopes of finding something more worthy. And two days later, Decatur shouted new orders to Argus as we lay hove to side by side.
They were to sail independently to the south, while we would head to the southwest. Perhaps separately, one of us would find suitable prey.
Now quite alone, not a sail to be seen in the full sweep of the horizon, Henry and I wondered whether sending the brig off by herself was a wise decision.
“You know how Decatur feels, Oliver. According to his thinking there isn’t a ship up to a seventy-four in the Royal Navy we couldn’t take in an hour or less. Besides, Hull was quite alone when he took Guerriere—and in only half an hour, if one is to believe the accounts we heard—and I know the cap’n is convinced our gunners are superior, even though the ship is not as handy as Constitution.”
“Yes, but what about Argus? Were she to engage with a frigate of Guerriere’s strength it would be folly.” I was concerned about my first ship. The thought of her being turned into matchwood by a British frigate was unsettling.
“Argus is a fine ship, weatherly and fast. I suspect should Cap’n Sinclair discover himself in an untoward position, he will exercise his command’s fine sailing capabilities and scurry to safety. Do not fear, Oliver; little Argus will not come to grief.” Henry smiled and patted my arm in a solicitous manner, ending the discussion.
“Tell me, Henry,” I said one evening at supper. Something had put me in a most jovial frame of mind. “Do you miss our colleague? Gone nearly four days now, he is.”
Henry shot a glance at me. I noticed Tom Goodwater, sitting across the table suppressing a smirk. Quite certainly he didn’t miss Cochran! For my part, I tried to maintain an even expression so as not to give away my mindset.
“Oh my, Oliver. I do hope you are joking with us. Miss Peter Cochran? The pride of three Navy Secretaries? The very one Secretary Hamilton bribed out commander to take off his hands? The self-same …”
I interrupted his dissertation, incredulous. “Did you say bribed the cap’n to take aboard? How long have you known this, Henry? And why, for heaven’s sake, did you wait until now to share it?”
“Oh, the cap’n told me some time ago. He’d been trying to figure a way to get the man out of the ship without offending the Secretary when he shared the whole tale with me. Didn’t think passing it on to you fellows would serve any useful purpose.” Allen laughed at our expressions.
He went on to explain. “Reckon the Secretary couldn’t abide the man any more than we could! Either he offered Cap’n Decatur something wonderful or called in a favor Decatur owed him, but either way, we got to enjoy the man for two and more years. Likely scarred some of the mids permanent-like! I know young John Thayer was terrified of him. But now he will be the Secretary’s problem again, if he’ll have him back! And you witnessed how eager our late second lieutenant was to get those shipping licenses to Washington City!” Henry laughed at the recollection.
We all joined in, our fine sense of camaraderie restored, the prospect of finding a British ship to fight or take as a prize filling us with anticipation. The meal was filled with happy banter and good claret, which Henry had ordered our steward to break out as a form of celebration.
The next morning, right at daybreak, my lookout hailed the quarterdeck.
“On deck, there! Sail! Sail to weather. Four or five leagues distant.”
Maybe this was our chance! I sent Willy to the maintop with a glass and waited impatiently for his return, glassing the sea to our windward side myself in vain hope of discerning what might be out there.
“Sir: she is quite large, under a press of sail, and heading on about the same course we are. Sir.” O’Donahue reported even before he had gained the quarterdeck. As his feet landed on the planks of the quarterdeck, he added, “Might be a Spaniard out of the Azores from her size.”
“Very well, Midshipman. Kindly inform the captain.” I held my nervous excitement in check; it might only be another merchantman.
But what if it is a warship? And more powerful than us? Willy said she was large and under a press of canvas. Could it be a seventy-four? And here we are, by ourselves with no one to look to for assistance should we need it.
Stop it, Oliver! We can handle whatever is out there. We have the best gunners in two navies! And Stephen Decatur as our commander.
Before I could resolve my own confused emotions, the captain stepped out of the companionway fastening the buttons on his homespun shirt. The straw hat was tucked under his arm, mashed flat.
“Well, Mister Baldwin? Mister O’Donahue mentioned something about a large contact under full sail to our wind’ard. Have you determined what she might be?”
“Uh, no, sir. I expect in a few more minutes she will have closed enough to see more of her rig and …” I stammered. I thought it best not to guess or offer Willys conjecture of her being Spanish.
Before I finished my thought, Decatur was on the bulwark and into the mizzen ratlines, his long glass slung across his back.
“Bring her up a point, Mister Baldwin!” Decatur’s voice drifted down from the mizzentop.
“Aye, sir. Bring her up a point!” I responded and gave the necessary orders to the quartermaster on the helm and the heavers on deck. And gradually, we began to close with the stranger.
With our ship’s lethargic pace—obviously the riggers in Boston had done little to improve her sailing qualities—Decatur ordered more sail set.
“No doubt, Mister Baldwin. She’s a warship. As I watched, she bore up a trifle so as to close with us, even as we did. I would wager she will be British and spoiling for a fight!” The captain rubbed his hands together in anticipation of action.
Who’s spoiling for a fight? I cant speak for the Brit, if that be what she is, but I can see Cap’n Decatur is!
“We’ll have the men fed promptly, Mister Baldwin. Can’t fight on an empty stomach. Then to quarters immediately. Won’t be two hours before we’re engaged.”
I ordered the bosun’s mate to pipe the hands to their breakfast, at the same time ensuring that their hammocks were neatly rolled in their nets along the bulwark. I was never convinced that those rolled bits of canvas would actually stop a bullet, but, as I would be on deck for this engagement, should that turn out to be what happens, I thought it best not to take too many chances. And suddenly, I realized I was nervous about a contest that might prove our own mortality. I fished my silver watch from my waistcoat pocket and glanced at it.
I didn’t particularly care about the time, but noted it was not yet seven. I fondled the watch for a bit, recalling the day I left my parent’s home in Philadelphia back in eighteen-three when my father had presented it to me. And having it stolen, then recovered, in Boston. Oh! How young and inexperienced I had been then!
The first lieutenant appeared shortly, offering to take the quarterdeck for me so as I might get a bite of beef and biscuit prior to the action; I readily agreed.
Hardly had I finished the last dry morsel of ship’s biscuit, washing it down with strong coffee, than I heard the drum’s insistent beating. I raced to the spardeck, quickly checking to ensure that Judd and Tom Good-water had everything in hand below. I suspected that Midshipman Holt might be less than useful should ball and grape begin to fly, but was confident in the ability of the forward gun captain, a man I knew to be steady and skilled in his employment.
From my station for battle at our stern chasers, I could see that indeed our quarry was a frigate of the Royal Navy, and of size sufficient to satisfy even Captain Decatur. The long red battle streamer stood out against the morning sky like a slash of blood on a white shirt. I tore my ey
es away from her as I made my rounds, ensuring that the gun captains had readied our two long twenty-four-pounders and their companions, a pair of ugly, short-snouted carronades per side, each capable of throwing a forty-two pound ball some one thousand yards. Of course they were indeed ready, tompions removed, side tackles cast off, fresh powder cartridges laid out carefully, and all manner of projectiles stacked neatly in the shot racks.
Sand had been spread to soak up any blood that might get spilled as well as provide traction for the men; cutlasses, boarding pikes, and battle-axes were stacked in their racks at the mizzen mast and also, I could see, forward at the main and fore masts. Nets had been rigged to catch any debris that might fall from on high, should the enemy attack our rig. Marines had made their way aloft and a handful was loading their muskets in the fighting tops of each mast. All the way forward, I could see the powder monkeys running the felt cartridge bags of powder to the bow chasers under the control of young John Thayer. Amidships, the heavers and haulers were on station, exposed to enemy fire, but ready to trim sails as the first lieutenant directed. No doubt, they, as I, hoped the hammocks neatly rolled in the netting would protect them from the musket balls fired at them by the Royal Marines in the enemy’s tops. Of course, even the landsmen among them knew those hammocks would hardly slow down a load of grape or solid shot.
At each gun station, I encouraged the men, checked our powder and shot, and peeked at our adversary.
She had borne up further, intent on closing with us while maintaining the windward gauge. Noting our relative positions, I realized that if Decatur holds his course, we would pass to leeward and ahead of the British vessel allowing us to offer her a raking fire while only her bow chasers might bear. Even though we might not gain the advantage of being to windward, we would surely be better positioned to open our broadside than they would. And I could see that the Brit was a good bit faster than our Old Wagon, even with the extra canvas Decatur had ordered so as to close with our adversary more quickly.
Suddenly, from across the water came the dull boom of cannon fire. I watched, in thrall, for the shot; the range seemed long to me. I smiled, pleased with my “eye,” as I noted two splashes some five hundred yards distant.
“Hold your fire, lads. We will make our shots count. No point in wasting the powder!” Decatur’s voice easily reached to the fo’c’sle and, I am sure, below to the gundeck.
We waited, watching. As the enemy continued to close, I noticed that our captain and first lieutenant were deep in conversation, each gesturing, describing what could only be maneuvers of the enemy and our own ship. Suddenly, Henrys voice rose above the sounds of the sea and squeaks and groans of our rigging.
“Prepare to wear ship! Heavers to the braces and sheets.”
The sailing master and bosun directed the spardeck activities as the ship slowly began to bear off, turning her stern to the wind and the enemy. And then we were sailing in the opposite direction, well ahead of our adversary, and clearly out of his range, as he was now out of ours.
What is Henry doing? Decatur must have told him to wear, but why? We are moving away from the enemy!
And then it began to make sense, even to me, inexperienced in this sort of engagement as I was. Decatur was going to let the Brit catch up and we would be alongside, broadside to broadside, with our superior weight of metal. I imagined that when the enemy frigate had used his greater speed to overtake us, Decatur, using our own lack of speed, would slip under his stern, gain the windward gage, and rake him as we went by. A brilliant plan, it seemed to me.
“On the gundeck: Mister Devon, you may fire as they bear!” Decatur’s voice rang out clearly.
“Mister Baldwin: as quickly as the carronades will reach, you, too, may commence your firing. Do not waste your powder.” His voice, carried aft to me by the wind was as calm as though he might be inquiring about the ship’s speed.
I shot another look at the enemy; she was indeed closing with us! We would be firing directly. I felt the ship ease her bow up, closer to the wind.
Henry is bringing her up a bit to close the distance separating us. Good! We’ll be firing all the sooner.
“Stand by to tack! Take in hand the braces and sheets! Topmen, clew up the courses. Mister Sailing Master: get those men moving!”
Tacking? Why on earth would we tack now? We should be opening fire!
But tack we did. Still we had not yet fired a shot. I watched the British frigate; she was off our starboard quarter and coming on hard.
The carronades and stern chasers will bear!
“Stand by the carronades! Long guns, check your train tackles! Gun captains, blow on your matches.” I gave the orders I had been trained to give and noticed Henry turn to make sure I wasn’t wasting powder and ball.
“Good job, Oliver. Let ‘em have it!”
They were in range; I peeked down the barrels of the long guns, watching the enemy, as the ship appeared perched on the end of each gun.
“Long guns: FIRE!” I shouted, more out of my own zeal than any necessity, as United States lifted her stern on a wave.
BOOM! BOOM!
The two big guns spoke almost as one and I watched for some indication of my success … or failure; either a splintered hole in the side of the enemy, or a splash in the water between us.
“Nice shot, Mister Baldwin. Keep it up as long as they will bear!” Decatur’s voice seemed almost quiet, yet I could hear him, even with the temporary ringing in my ears from the firing. I turned, and stuck my elbow squarely into his midsection!
“Oof. Seems to recall your actions when first we met, Oliver!” Decatur, taking no offense at my clumsiness, was smiling.
My goodness! He still remembers that horrible day in Boston when I slammed my sea chest into him.
“Oh sir! I am so sorry. I didn’t … that is, I thought … you were forward, sir.”
“Don’t worry, son. That was nice shooting. You got a piece of him. Keep it up.” He smiled once more and turned, heading back to the quarterdeck.
And keep it up I did. The men fired, swabbed out the bores, reloaded, and dragged the massive guns back into battery as quick as ever they had. Our shots scored more hits than misses. Even the carronades were hitting, though, I suspect, with little damage inflicted due to the extreme range. But even over the half mile separating us from our quarry, I could see the men and officers in her working their own guns as they tried to inflict as much or more damage to us and scurrying about, seeing to the damage we…I… had created. And then we were again out of range.
Decatur watched the enemy through his glass, waiting for their next move. Suddenly he turned to Henry and spoke loud enough for me to hear.
“My stars, Allen! That’s Carden! That’s Macedonia! We shall make matchwood of her. I wonder if Carden has realized whom he has met. Now we shall see about the ‘pride of the Royal Navy!’”
I instantly recalled the boastful and brash remarks the British captain had made about his ship at the captain’s home only some eight months back. I also recalled Decatur’s answer and the wager Cap’n Carden had offered. Now we would determine which ship was the stronger and which had a better crew! There was little doubt in my own mind, but in battle, chance frequently plays a role, and we would have to wait for the whole of the encounter to run it’s course. I remembered that Macedonian carried a lighter broadside than did we, and also that the British relied more on their carronades.
As I watched the British frigate, she wore around, still maintaining the weather gauge, a distance off of a bit over a mile, and now sailed the same course as we did. While behind us, I knew she would catch us up soon enough and encouraged my gun crews to stand ready.
“She’ll be alongside quick as you please, lads! Stand by your matches. We’ll show them who’s the better!” Henry shouted to the spar deck gunners.
I am sure the fellows below, eager to get into the fight, heard his words as well, as they let out a lusty huzzah and were immediately joined by my crews
as well as those on the fo’c’sle. Rammers and sponges were brandished aloft, a further demonstration of the enthusiasm for the coming fray.
Meanwhile, Macedonian continued to gain ground on us. I studied the ship as she approached and wondered why Captain Carden did not bear off a bit to close the range for his lighter eighteen-pounders, but I could fathom no reason for his action.
Maybe he doesn’t yet realize who we are. Thinks were gunned the same way he is and wants to stay a safe distance from us ‘til he is ready to move in for the kill. Won’t he be surprised!
One part of my brain continued to wrestle with the tactics while another checked my guns and carronades, making sure all was in readiness for the imminent fight.
Decatur ordered our sail reduced to the battle canvas, reefed tops’ls, jib, and mizzen. He did leave up the mizzen stays’l as well, likely figuring that with our slower speed, it might be helpful to have just a bit more than might otherwise be necessary. And as the sails were reduced, the British frigate gained on us even more quickly. But, still, Carden maintained the same span of water separating us.
“Stand by, lads. Be ready to fire as you bear!” Decatur’s shout was easily heard, our well-disciplined crew maintaining complete silence throughout the ship.
I watched the Brit, knowing full well that my guns would be the first— again—to offer iron to the enemy.
“Mister Baldwin, I believe your twenty-fours might reach. You may fire when you are ready.” The captain spoke only as loud as was necessary for me to hear him.
And ready we were; I sighted down the barrel of the nearest long gun to confirm the gun captain had trained the carriage around to aim at the Royal Navy frigate. And the seas were starting to build some more. I waited a heartbeat than cried out.
“Fire!”
A split second later, as United States lifted her stern on a wave, the larboard twenty-four-pounder roared out, momentarily extending her nine foot iron barrel with a six foot stream of orange flame. We were loaded with solid shot and I watched a section of bulwark, forward on Macedonians starboard bow, explode in splinters, followed a moment later by a satisfying thud that resounded across the water..
In Pursuit of Glory Page 39
