In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

“Cap’n Carden? I am William Allen, First Lieutenant in United States. Cap’n Decatur has asked me to bring you across the water to our ship, if you please, sir.” I noticed that Henry used his proper name and saluted as he addressed the beaten British commander.

  “Very well, young man. You look some familiar to me. Hmm, did we not meet some months ago at your captain’s home in Virginia?”

  “Aye, sir. We did. February of this year, sir, it was. Please come this way.” Henry turned and led the way to where our boat, now secured to the side of the frigate, rose and fell with the still heaving seas.

  As Captain Carden climbed down into the boat, Henry said softly to me, “You want to stay here, or come back with me? I am not sure you will be assured of your personal safety here, what with all these drunken louts running about. Must have broken into the spirit locker, the whole lot of them. Some discipline!” Henry smiled the smile of a victor.

  I went in the boat, more curious to see what would transpire when the two captains met, than concerned for my safety. After all, there were eight Marines, armed, to protect me should it be warranted.

  As the boat pulled across the water, Captain Carden studied his ship. She was a perfect wreck! Her rig mostly down, her hull broken by our heavy carronades in well over two-score places that I could count, and bodies still being thrown into the sea, she made a most forlorn sight.

  “Where is Captain Decatur, Mister Allen? I would have expected him here to meet me in some manner of a civilized naval commander.” Carden spoke to Henry immediately after setting foot on the clean planks of the American ship, his arrogance still unchecked.

  He did not look at Henry, but cast his eyes all about our ship, taking in the order and lack of serious damage we sustained in stark contrast to the chaotic mess he had just left.

  “There, sir. He is on the quarterdeck, awaiting you. I will take you there.” Henry pointed.

  “I see no captain on the quarterdeck … or elsewhere, young man. Are you quite sure he is not below, in his Cabin?”

  “Yes, sir. He is just there, by the bulwark, starboard side.” Henry pointed again, then set off, expecting Carden to follow.

  “You mean that … figure … that caricature … in the straw hat and homespun garment? Surely even your Navy is not so desperate as to allow a captain to appear in such … garb!” Carden sputtered, both furious at being beaten by upstarts like us Americans, and outraged that the victorious captain would not deign to greet his guest in proper uniform.

  “Aye, sir. That’s him. And I reckon what he’s wearing ain’t likely to change the outcome!” Henry was simply not going to put up with this man’s arrogance; did he not lose the contest, and badly?

  Decatur, clad in homespun and straw hat exactly as the Royal Navy commander had observed, returned Captain Carden’s salute with a smile, then greeted his former guest most civilly.

  “I am sorry we meet again under these circumstances, sir. But it would appear, that the question posed in my home has been answered, at least to my own satisfaction!”

  “Hummph! Indeed! I offer you my sword, sir. You fought well. It appears that I am forced to wear the unseemly distinction of being the first of my service to lose in single ship combat to your Navy. Would that it were not so.” Carden lowered his tone, his head, and his arrogance.

  “Oh mercy, no, Cap’n. That is not the case at all, sir. Your colleague, Cap’n Dacres of Guerriere fell to our Constitution under my colleague, Isaac Hull, late in August. It would appear you are the second, sir. And I will not accept your sword. You fought a fine and honorable contest.” Decatur spoke with sincerity, as if he could feel the man’s humiliation.

  “My goodness, Dacres … how dreadful!” Carden uttered, clearly not as bereft at his colleague’s loss as he was pleased at not being the first to strike to the Americans.

  “Mister Allen, take another boat and the surgeon, if you please, and you and Mister Baldwin send back the other officers, the severely wounded, after Mister Appleby has had a look at them, and see what you make of the wreck. Take Comstock with you; I am sure he will be of help.” Decatur dismissed us to continue his conversation with the defeated Royal Navy officer.

  And back we went. This time, the officers seemed less hostile and even sent a midshipman forward to direct a few of the more sober seamen to assist our crew in securing the boat and heaving down the manropes for our ascent to the deck. Little else had changed, however, from our first visit; drunken seamen staggered around the deck, searching for fallen comrades as they heaved and hauled on all manner of debris; spars, dismounted guns, rigging, and wounded sailors still lay mostly where they had landed during the battle. And the officers continued to maintain their position on the quarterdeck, not in any order, but in groups of two or three, seemingly by rank, talking among themselves and watching us with sideways glances as we made our way through the chaos toward them.

  Henry seemed immensely pleased with the result of our cannonading. He smiled and muttered praises for the men he (and I) had trained in gunnery. When he approached the group of lieutenants standing by what remained of the wheel, one detached himself and strode angrily forward, as if to intercept us from approaching his fellows. He wore a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head but seemed unconcerned about the wound. Several others, officers all, showed signs of having received offerings from our gunners and marksmen.

  “What, may I ask, sir, is your intent, now that you have made a perfect wreck of my ship?”

  “Sir. Are you, perchance, the first lieutenant in Macedonian?” Henry asked in perfect civility and courtesy.

  “I am he, sir. And you are…?”

  “I am William Allen, First Lieutenant of the frigate United States. This is Lieutenant Baldwin, Third Lieutenant in that vessel. We are to see you safely across, with your more serious wounded, to United States. Our surgeon, Mister Appleby, is already examining those of your wounded still on deck and, I am sure, he will seek out your own surgeon, to offer whatever assistance he might, when he has completed his rounds topside.

  “Our boat awaits you, sir, and I would be obliged were you and your officers to make your way to it. I assure you, your treatment on our ship will be as courteous and civilized as any you might expect.” Henry pointed to where our longboat bobbed in the still heavy swells at the break in the bulwark.

  “You surely do not intend to send me,” he paused a moment, glancing at his messmates, then continued. “And my colleagues, away without our baggage?”

  Henry looked the man squarely in the eye. “You do not suppose to have been taken by privateersmen, sir?”

  “I do not know by whom I have been taken.” The lieutenant glowered at Henry as he offered the insult.

  It suddenly dawned that I had met this arrogant fellow before; he was Lieutenant Hope and I further recalled that when I had visited this ship in Norfolk, I had noticed that many of the crew and junior officers were quite afraid of him.

  “Sir: you will conduct yourself and your officers into the boat, if you please.” Henrys voice had hardened. It no longer bore the earlier civility and courtesy I had heard at first.

  As the officers made their way forward to the boat, Henry spoke to me, loudly enough for the British officers to hear plainly what he said. “Oliver, assign two of the Marines as guard over the officers’ baggage, if you please. Direct them to use whatever force they might need to protect it.”

  “Aye, sir.” I doffed my hat (recovered from the carriage slide of a forty-two-pounder carronade, where it must have landed just before my watch was shot) and went to carry out the order, noticing as I did so, that another boat—this one was filled with American sailors—was approaching the British frigate.

  When I returned from my errand, the deck was a hive of activity. American and British sailors (those who were unwounded and of sufficient sobriety to help) seemed bent on sorting out the mess, moving the wounded, and, already, a spirit of camaraderie and order was taking over. I learned, during the course of the after
noon, that many of our men and many of the Royal Navy sailors were acquainted. Surprised at first, it occurred to me that we had several British seamen aboard and, of course, the Royal Navy ship would have pressed Americans in their own ship’s company; it seemed quite natural that some might indeed know each other and, of course, they shared the common bond of being sailors.

  We all worked with a will. Henry, Mister Comstock, bosun from United States, and I directed the efforts of the combined force of sailors with the assistance of a handful of Royal Navy petty officers. By nightfall, and blessed with continued fair weather, we had made surprising progress, not just with the spardeck, but with the structural damage to the formerly British frigate as well.

  To be fair, a few fights had broken out between the American and British sailors, spurred on by the sense of outrage felt by the vanquished tars at losing a combat to those “damnable upstart Yankees.” I am proud to offer that the Americans kept their good humor and soon mollified their Royal Navy counterparts. Those Americans who would remain in Macedonian over the night were welcomed into messes and a fine sense of camaraderie seemed to prevail.

  Henry and I returned to United States for supper and were invited to join the captain in his meal. Captain Carden was in attendance as well, seemingly over his bout of misplaced arrogance, and, considering his circumstances, quite jovial at the hospitality offered him.

  “Well, Mister Allen. How did you find the frigate?” Decatur asked after the initial formalities ran their course.

  “Sir. She is cruelly wounded, as you have seen, and the hull has received more than one hundred of our shot, by my count. The rig is mostly down, lowers alone on fore and main are in place, but not unscathed. The carronade batteries forward as well as those on the quarterdeck are mostly dismounted and more than half of the eighteen-pounders below have been rendered useless. “The seamen bore the brunt of it, sir. Their surgeon and Mister Appleby told me there were thirty-six men killed immediately and another thirty-seven or so with wounds severe enough that both medicos doubt their survival ‘til morning. Another group, thirty and more by count, are less severely hurt and Mister Appleby, at least, feels they will survive their wounds. He mentioned in addition, sir, that the British surgeon is a credit to his profession.” As Henry spoke this last, he looked directly at Captain Carden and smiled.

  Carden acknowledged the compliment with a modest inclination of his head, but said nothing, nor did he smile.

  “Is she safe afloat, Mister Allen? And can you and Mister Baldwin restore her ability to navigate?” Decatur clearly had a plan in mind.

  Henry paused thoughtfully, though I am quite sure he anticipated the question since we had discussed that very topic only hours before.

  “I believe so, Cap’n. It will take some time to jury rig topmasts and a new mizzen as well as plug the holes in her sides. As long as the weather holds fair, we should be able to manage it in perhaps a fortnight.”

  “Splendid! Splendid!” Decatur smiled broadly as he digested the news. “I am not sure I can afford you as much as a fortnight, Henry. No telling what the weather might have in store for us in these latitudes. November can be troublesome, you may recall.”

  The captain was absently rubbing his hands together, something I had learned he did when agitated. Now, with the smile spread across his face, it appeared that the action spoke only of his joy with our accomplishment and his eagerness to finish what he had begun.

  Then, almost under his breath, he added, “Yes, we will bring our prize home. It would be shameful to sink such a fine vessel.”

  He had, in his own mind, trumped his colleague’s ace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It was not, in the event, a fortnight; five days saw us with a rig of sorts, patches covering the lowest and most dangerous holes in our sides, and a prize crew composed of British prisoners of war and American sailors, Lieutenant Henry Allen commanding. I was named first lieutenant.

  All during the days and nights of our reconstruction, United States lay close by, her sails clewed up and, while not at battle stations, the gunports remained open and the dangerous working ends of our main battery were fully exposed. Boats shuttled back and forth, carrying men and supplies, timbers, spars, and cordage for the repair work.

  Captain Decatur made several trips of inspection to his prize, being shown every part of the ship, either by Henry Allen or myself, should Captain Allen be otherwise engaged. At the midshipmen’s cockpit, still utilized as a hospital by both surgeons, he stifled a gasp and briefly turned away; the smell of putrefaction and decay was initially overwhelming, and the groans and cries of the men suffering the agony of amputations and a myriad of other distresses, most daunting.

  But enter he did and spoke to each of the men who was conscious, offering condolences and encouragement. I was most impressed with this display of even-handedness to the sailors of our enemy. But this was Decatur!

  Finally, Captain Decatur, on the invitation of Captain Allen, made a more formal inspection of his prize and, after some deliberation with Henry, deemed her fit for the twenty-two hundred mile trip home.

  “It will be truly a miracle if we do not encounter a vessel of the Royal Navy.” Henry declared. “The seas are alive with cruisers. One encounter could undo all we have accomplished.”

  “Mister Allen … excuse me, Captain Allen. As United States will be in company with you, I fear any encounter with a cruiser of the Royal Navy would only result in more grief for the British. We have taken the pride of their frigate fleet and can surely add to our catch, should the opportunity present itself.” Decatur openly relished the thought.

  “I am more concerned,” he went on, a scowl crossing his face, “with foul weather showing up than with cruisers. That, I can do little about and, in the weakened condition of your command, sir, I fear the outcome, should weather of some severity appear. We will have to trust to God for His good Grace and mercy on that score.”

  I surely was not gladdened by the commodore’s grim prognostication, but, with Henry, consoled myself that God would protect us. After all, has He not done so, and quite nicely, so far?

  The next morning dawned clear and mild, the breeze fair and the seas easy. We had enjoyed a final supper the night before with Captain Decatur on United States, punctuated with any number of toasts to our conquest, a successful voyage home, and Henry’s first command. I was surprised that Captain Carden, late of his Britannic Majesty’s frigate, Macedonian, was not in attendance; he had elected to sup with his officers in the gunroom. As the sun showed itself on the eastern horizon, the bosun turned out the crew on the United States frigate Macedonian. He saw to the placement of hammocks in the netting, and parceled out the short-handed crew to the jobs necessary to sail our prize home. The cook, technically a prisoner, but happy to serve under our flag, fixed a hearty breakfast consisting of burgoo and hard bread for the men. Henry stood on the quarterdeck surveying his domain, while I and our American sailing master, Mister Maples, sent the topmen aloft to get some sail on our jury-rigged masts and yards.

  Looking at our rig, I was happy not to be spending my time up there! Only the fore and main masts carried topmasts, ingeniously crafted from a pair of mainyards, while the mizzen, salvaged from over the side where it had led to the British demise, was rigged only with a fore and aft sail, called a driver. Shrouds had been tightened and, while it was unlikely that, with mild weather any of it would come down, nobody knew what might go wrong in the event of a turn for the worse. We could only hope.

  As the square sails dropped from their yards and the driver was hauled out, Macedonian fell off on a larboard tack with United States slightly ahead and keeping station to our weather side. Her gunports were closed, as were ours, but we all knew Decatur would be ready for any opportunity to engage another British warship. We were headed home, not just as victors, but with a prize of wonderful stature. Surely this feat would garner ample honor and glory for our commander. Thinking about it, I could barely suppress my
grin. But there were over two thousand miles to be sailed before any of that might accrue!

  The first week passed quite uneventfully. Sailors, both British and American, became shipmates, a more important relationship than nationality. They faced common threats, problems, and simple pleasures together, bonding them, for the most part, into a crew. Officers—there were only two of us, Henry and me, but we also had, at my request, Willy O’Donahue, midshipman, to help out, stand watches and act as another officer. To that end, Captain Decatur agreed to give him the temporary rank of lieutenant, something that quite overwhelmed the young midshipman.

  We all worked together to keep our prize sailing at a pace acceptable to Henry, as well as to keep her afloat. On the second morning, we noticed that United States had pulled significantly ahead of us, even with her courses clewed up! To suggest that Decatur reduce sail even further was clearly not within Captain Alien’s capability. I offered, only partly in jest, that it might make the commodore smile to see our signal requesting that he retard his progress, in the light of Old Wagon’s reputation; Henry did not find it amusing.

  So, while some men worked the pumps, others continued to patch holes in the hull, and still others worked aloft, rigging sails to makeshift yards, adding shrouds and stays, and attempting, unsuccessfully, to rig a topmast on the mizzen. Between pumping overboard the water in the hold and adding some additional sail area to her, we managed to get Macedonian to show us some of her superior sailing abilities and began, slowly, to overhaul Captain Decatur.

  Henry was pleased and congratulated Bosun Comstock and our new sailing master, Mister Maples. He ordered an extra ration of “Jamaican” (as the American sailors called the rum issued by ships of the Royal Navy). Decatur, when we came within hailing distance, was equally pleased and, standing on the bulwark of the quarterdeck as was his wont, said as much to us, shouting through his speaking trumpet.

  “Try not to get too far ahead of us; wouldn’t do to have the prize arrive before her captor, now would it?” The joy in Decatur’s voice carried well across the water, even distorted through the tin speaking trumpet.