With the light and often contrary breezes, we did not, in the event, sight Block Island until mid-morning of December third, the day after Henry had forecast its appearance. The fog had lifted during the night and the early winter day was as crisp and clear as any might want. A breeze blew in from the north, allowing us to pass the island on its deeper side and bear off for the opening of Narragansett Bay. And there was not a sail to be seen in any direction!
As we sailed past the bluffs of the island’s northeast end, a tops’l schooner appeared from behind the headland. Her sails were sharply etched into the deep blue sky and, behind her, a feather of white marked her path across the brilliant sea. She was clearly taking full advantage of the fair breeze!
“Sail! Sail off the larboard quarter and making for us,” was the lookout’s cry.
In an instant, Henry was into the mizzen rigging, focusing his long glass on this fast closing vessel.
“She’s showing American colors, Mister Baldwin. Stand by with our own, if you please. And let us get what after guns we might man in the event this is a ruse and she turns out to be other than what she appears.” The commander’s disembodied voice drifted down from the mizzentop.
Macedonian turned into a hive of activity, led mostly by Mister Comstock. A pair of guns from the starboard side were dragged across the gundeck to replace those rendered useless by our cannonading in October; powder was found and shot carefully rolled to remove any rust that might impede a true flight, and a few topmen went aloft, ready to shorten sail should it prove necessary. All the while, Henry watched the approaching schooner for any sign of treachery.
As he had instructed, I prepared our colors: the American ensign and immediately below it, the British Cross of St. George. There was not a sail in sight, save the schooner and, even in our weakened, undergunned and undermanned condition, I felt confident we might stand off this small ship. The schooner would most likely be armed with six-pounders and only a few of them on top of it. A few hits from the British eighteen-pounders would, hopefully, convince the schooner’s captain to seek easier prey.
“Put em up, Mister Baldwin. I think he is just what he appears to be.” Henry stepped off the bulwark, speaking as he gained the quarterdeck.
It must admit, I felt a certain pride watching our flag go up above the British colors, telling any who saw that the ship was an American prize. I smiled at the bits of colored cloth as they whipped in the stiff breeze, then sobered as I recalled the cost, both American and British, involved in gaining that distinction.
BOOM! A single gun spoke from the schooner, the remnants of the white smoke from its discharge quickly carried away in torn wisps.
“Look, Henry! She’s shooting at us. Can you imagine what that fool must be thinking to take on a frigate? Seems right stupid …”
“HOLD YOUR FIRE, LADS. She’s not shooting at us. Hold your fire.” Henry ignored me for a moment, shouting his command down the ladder to the gundeck.
“He’s saluting us, Oliver. There was no shot in that. He’s responding to the way our colors are showing. Have the lads fire a half charge to acknowledge.” Henry was smiling, clearly enjoying his role as prize master.
BOOM. The deeper throated roar of an eighteen-pounder answered quickly and we heard a faint cheer float down to us from the schooner.
The little ship drew close, coming under our stern and easing up to our weather side. Her captain luffed her sails to match our pace and the smart, well-managed vessel loafed along to starboard of us, just a half-pistol shot off our beam.
“What ship are you, sir? Who’s prize is that?” A voice, perhaps the captain of the schooner shouted across the water.
Henry leaped onto the bulwark and, cupping his hands around his mouth as we had often seen Captain Decatur do, shouted back. “We are the prize of the frigate United States, Stephen Decatur commanding. She was formerly His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Macedonian. And who, sir, might you be?”
Another cheer rose from our escort and we could plainly see most of her crew lining her leeward rail, waving their arms and hats in celebration of our victory.
“I offer you my heartiest congratulations on your victory! I am Edwin Taylor, master of the private armed schooner Majestic out of Providence. Where are you heading, sir? And who might be in command?”
“We are making for Newport, sir. I am Lieutenant William Allen, prize master.”
Another lusty huzzah, a few ragged cheers, shouted commands, and the schooner sheeted in her sails and flew by us.
“Do you suppose she’s heading into Narragansett, Henry? She’ll surely be there long before we get in.”
“Aye, that’d be my guess. You might let the crew stand down from quarters. Won’t likely be having to defend ourselves now!” Henry smiled, glanced down at the water, then added, “See if Maples might get a bit more canvas on her, Oliver. I’d like to set our best bower before dark today if we can.”
There was an order I could carry out with a will! Thoughts of my dear Ann filled my head as I found Maples and passed on Henry’s orders. The dour sailing master even smiled at the thought of ending this long slog that had taken us, shorthanded and in a damaged vessel, across over two thousand miles of ocean. What a relief to finally be safe in an American harbor. And what a ride it had been! Watching for enemy cruisers, a storm that hammered at us for three days, standing watch and watch, ice forming aloft and alow, almost constant pumping, and trying to repair the damage our own guns had wrought! And, with our arrival in the safe haven of Newport Harbor, I would find myself in the safe haven of Ann Perry’s embrace.
Show us some speed, Macedonian. Get us across this last forty miles quickly!
The men seemed to feel the same excitement at an imminent arrival. They turned to with a will, carrying out Maples’ orders quickly. A t’gallant pole appeared from somewhere and was hoisted aloft followed by a jury-rigged yard. The scrap of sail went up next, hauled to the top of the mainmast by eager hands, British and American alike working side by side. The topmen, working at the dizzying height of the new t’gallant, bent the canvas to the slender pole and the heavers on deck, responding to Comstock’s gruff commands, sheeted it home. The sailmaker, a British fellow of an age more suitable to pensioner than seaman, found a spare foretopmast stays’l and Maples added its spread to our rig, further straining, even in the modest breeze, our precarious masts and shrouds. And through it all, Henry paced up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck, watching the water as it now moved faster past our side, each additional knot broadening his smile.
“This is a fine-sailing vessel, Oliver.” He said as I returned to the quarterdeck. “I can only imagine what she might be capable of undamaged and with a full rig. I’d warrant Decatur would happily trade her for his Old Wagon given half a chance!”
I laughed in agreement, both at Henrys use of the less-than-complimentary nickname, as well as at the thought of passing Castle Rock in short order.
Of course, our additional speed and our heel created more strain on the patches along our leeward side, but the men worked the pumps without complaint and managed to stay ahead of the water coming into the ship. Even the lookout’s cry of “Land!” did not interrupt their rhythmic strokes.
When up-spirits was piped, it was a happy throng of men, chattering and laughing, slapping each other on the back, who queued up with their tin cups and, even though we all knew supper would be delayed by our arrival, there was not a complaint to be heard.
Henry had decided to carry all the sail we had up into the entrance of Narragansett; a proper, seaman-like arrival would be remembered and something that Captain Decatur would take pride in. And we would be in the lee of the high cliffs of Castle Hill, once in the entrance.
“Looks like there’s people all along the cliffs!” The man in the foretop called down to the deck as we closed with the mouth of the harbor, leaving Point Judith and the shallows safely to larboard.
Henry and I both swung our long glasses around to
look; indeed, throngs of people were on the high cliffs facing the sea and more seemed to wrap around the shoreline along the cut that would take us past Breton Point and into the harbor. As we drew closer, the crowd changed from just indistinct masses of humanity to individual shapes. And from somewhere, we could hear the pealing of bells.
“I’d reckon Mister Taylor must have made good time to the harbor, Henry. Looks like word of our arrival beat us in by a wide margin. Seems like the whole town turned out to see us in.”
Indeed, it did look as if the whole town had turned out, but I cared not a whit for the whole town; my thoughts were centered on only one person as I slowly swung my glass over the shoreline, hoping to see her.
As the daylight began to fade, and with it, the breeze, Macedonian made her way smartly past the line of rocks that extended seaward from the point.
“Take in the t’gallants and stays’ls, Mister Maples. Mister Comstock, make ready our best bower and a cable, if you please.” Henry’s orders sent all hands, save the cook and the prisoners still confined below, into a frenzy of activity.
I went forward with the bosun to oversee the preparations for anchoring as Willy O’Donahue stayed amidships, assisting the sailing master with the heavers on deck. I had slung my glass over my shoulder and used any spare moment to sweep the throngs standing on the rocks lining the entrance and above them, on the high cliffs that overlooked both the Bay and the sea. We could all hear the cheering, huzzahs, and whistles as the crowds watched us sail past, the American flag still flapping above the British ensign in the failing breeze. Cries of “Decatur” and “United States” floated in the evening chill.
This is even a greater spectacle than Constitution coming in to Boston after her great victory! We’re bringing in a prize, the pride of the Royal Navy frigates!
I am a bit embarrassed to admit that my mind barely comprehended the work being done around me, so intent was I on studying the faces lining the shore as they passed by.
As I swung my glass across one group, each muffled against the cold December evening with coats, scarves, and cloaks, I stopped, tried to sharpen the focus of the telescope, and centered it on one figure. Could it be?
She was wrapped in a burgundy cloak, hooded, but not sufficiently to hide the long auburn hair framing a lovely face, not quite sharp in the circle of my vision. I lowered the glass and found her again with my eye. As I did so, the figure waved enthusiastically with one hand, while with the other, she swept the hood off her head. The hair that I remembered so well, no longer held captive by the hood of her cape, responded to the breeze, and blew across her face.
Is that her? Surely looks like her. Oh, miss, move that hair away from your face. I must know!
I raised my glass again.
The noise of the crowd, the cacophony of church bells, and the cheers of our own sailors in response, seemed merely a dull distraction to my efforts. I found the face in my glass again just as her hand swept back her hair. And there she was!
Oh thank you, thank you. It is you!
It was she! It was my Ann! I waved my own arm frantically, trying in vain to keep the glass focused on her. And then, in a rush of enthusiasm, love, anticipation, and relief, shouted her name.
“ANN! ANN PERRY!” And waved both arms over my head.
I was still holding my long glass in one hand and, in my efforts to attract her attention, inadvertently banged it against the starboard fore-shroud. It dropped into the water with a silent splash. It barely registered in my mind.
Now unencumbered by my long glass, I continued waving and shouting. My voice was only one of the hundreds cheering and shouting, but it was the only one calling her name. She must have heard me; with a wonderful smile, she looked right at me, waved frantically, and called out.
“Oliver! Oh, Oliver!”
The noise of the crew, the cheers of the citizens of Newport, the bells still ringing out their welcome, and the shouted orders of our bosun and sailing master, all faded into the background. I heard her sweet voice as though she were standing almost next to me.
I was home.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
While this book is technically a work of fiction, the reader should note that the historical events depicted are accurate; in some cases I have changed a date to ease the flow of the story, but I have not altered history.
Obviously, Oliver Baldwin, his family, and many of his shipmates are fictitious. Historical characters such as Stephen Decatur, John Rodgers, William Henry Allen, the officers on Barron’s court martial board along with the civilian attorneys, John Carden, David Hope, and many others are real. While I, in essence, “put words in their mouths” they represent utterances that I tried to keep within the character of the person. Naturally, there was no scribe following these individuals around jotting down their every word for posterity!
The reader should be aware that the incident subsequently referred to as the “Chesapeake/Leopard Incident” did actually occur as described in Barron’s court martial and its delayed resolution has been considered by historians to be one of the causes that led up to the War of 1812. Chesapeake did, in fact, go to sea with “lumbered” (cluttered) decks, short of crew, and with virtually no training. Henry Allen is credited with firing the only shot offered by the American frigate during the confrontation and, though unconfirmed, is reported to have carried a live coal from the galley stove or camboose in his bare hands to touch off the cannon. The officers of Chesapeake, including First Lieutenant Ben Smith, who did die after the incident (from illness, not from any injury sustained during it) are real people who acted as depicted.
For the benefit of any who are curious, an excerpt from Admiral Berkeley’s Order to his Captains of the North American Station and, in response, the text of Commodore Barron’s letter to Captain Humphries of Leopard is set forth below:
“… that each and every vessel of his squadron should take by force, if they could not be obtained by other means, any British deserters that could be found onboard the Chesapeak [sic], and that on the part of the Commanders of the ships of his Squadron, a search should be admitted for american [sic] deserters…”
“I know of no such men as you describe, the officers that were of the recruiting service for this ship was [sic] pa[r]ticularly instructed by the Government, through me, not to enter any Deserters from his B.M. Ships, nor do I know of any being here. I am also instructed never to permit the Crew of any Ship that I command, to be muster’d by any other but their own Officers. It is my disposition to preserve harmony and I hope this answer to your dispatch will prove satisfactory
Signed JAMES BARRON
AT SEA June 22nd 1807
To the Commander of his B M Ship Leopard”
The court martial of James Barron, Charles Gordon, Captain Hall USMC, and Gunner Hooks occurred as written (save, of course, for Oliver’s testimony) and the outcome was also portrayed accurately. That outcome would ultimately lead Commodores Decatur and Barron to the field of honor in 1820, resulting in Decatur’s death. As a matter of interest, portions of Barron’s monologue at his trial were taken from the transcript of that trial.
USS Chesapeake was indeed considered by many to be a “jinx” ship. Her history as told in the story is accurate to the point at which it ends; on June 1, 1813, under command of James Lawrence, the American frigate was lost in a short but bloody battle to HMS Shannon off Cape Ann, Massachusetts. (See A Fine Tops’l Breeze by William H. White, Tiller Publishing, 2001) The ship was, indeed, carrying at least four deserters from the Royal Navy at the time HMS Leopard fired into her and Lord Townshend’s threats, as testified to in the court martial, were accurate.
Upon Chesapeake’s arrival in Hampton Roads following the incident, the officers wrote and sent ashore a letter to Secretary of the Navy Smith detailing what they termed the “disgraceful behavior” of the Commodore. Henry Allen was one of the signers of that letter. Again, for the benefit of historical accuracy, I offer the complete text below:
/> “The undersigned Officers of the late U.S. Ship Chesapeake, feeling deeply sensible of the disgrace which must be attached to the late (in their opinion) premature surrender of the U.S. Ship Chesapeake of 40 Guns to the English Ship of War Leopard of 50 Guns, without their previous knowledge or consent, and desirous of proving to their country and the World, that it was the wish of all the undersigned, to have rendered themselves, worthy of the Flag under which that had the honor to serve, by a determined resistance, to an unjust demand, do request the Hon. Secretary of the Navy to order a Court of Enquiry into their conduct.
“At the same time they are compelled by impervious duty, the honour of their flag, the honour of their Countrymen, and by all that is dear to themselves, to request an orde may be issued for the arrest of Commodore James Barron, on the charges herewith exhibited, which the undersigned pledge themselves to prove true, Viz. 1st On the probability of anEengagement, for neglecting to clear his ship for actions. 2ndly For not doing his utmost to take or destroy a Vessel which we conceive it his duty to have done.”
[ Signed] Ben Smith 1st Lieut.
William Crane Lt.
Wm. H. Allen 3rd Leut.
Jno. Orde Creighton Lt.
Sidney Smith 5th Lieutnt.
Sam Brooke Master
During Chesapeake’s cruise to enforce the embargo following the trial (Stephen Decatur commanding) the crew witnessed the first steamship to make an open ocean voyage in America. As represented, Phoenix, under Col. John Smith, did make the voyage from New York to Philadelphia. I took liberty with the year; it was not 1808 but in fact 1809 that the momentous event occurred.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 43
