The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War

by James L. Haley

  In justice, he told himself, it made him question how a nation of the size and diversity of the United States could ever find a true unity when its widely flung sections had such divergent economies, and societies, and ways of living. E pluribus unum, they had declared, but how would that ever be possible?

  “You will be wanting to see your ship now.”

  “Oh, yes.” Bliven’s eye engaged the hostess. “Ma’am, your stew was delicious, and of a flavoring I have never encountered. May I ask how you achieved it?”

  “Well, I thank you for that pretty compliment.” The hostess seemed to relax somewhat. “The truth is, I have never inquired. That is the way our cook has prepared it ever since I was little. Kitchen is out back; you are welcome to ask her, if you like.”

  He and Dent exited the rear door and saw the kitchen—three walls, a capacious high fireplace, and an open front, well supplied with all manner of pots and utensils, and busy among them a black woman, elderly and large, her hair tied in a red bandana, her dress a swaying bell of cream-gray calico, printed with a fading pattern of tiny red and blue flowers.

  “Good afternoon,” said Bliven as he and Dent approached.

  She looked up with tiny black eyes. “Good day, suh.” She was as toothless as a baby.

  “May I ask how you flavored your stew? It was very tasty.”

  “Oh, suh, dat’s my secret!” she played with him.

  “Well.” Bliven affected a kind of coyness. “I am from very far away; do you think you might tell me your secret, please?”

  The slave cook emitted a high cackle. “Suh, I will make you a bargain. You don’t ask me my secret, and I won’t tell you no lie.”

  “Ah. Well, I suppose I must just come back and eat again.”

  She waved her ladle at him. “Well, now, you come back anytime.”

  In the Yard once more, Captain Dent unlocked the door of a long, low warehouse with two windows in front. “The armory,” he said as they entered.

  Within, Bliven beheld two opposing files of new twelve-pounder long guns, about half mounted on carriages, the rest lying on the dirt floor amid the timbers that would become their carriages.

  “You will mount twenty guns. Obviously, you would not want to take on a frigate with them, but they will be more than sufficient for raiding the enemy’s commerce, which will be your principal occupation. They are new, you will see they have firing locks.”

  “I should hope so,” Bliven replied. “I would not know where to even look for linstocks anymore.”

  “Ha! I rather imagine there are plenty still lying around a Navy Yard somewhere. I could probably even find you biscuit left over from the Revolution.”

  “Probably still edible, in the Navy’s estimation.”

  “Probably. Balls? It is likely I can find you ample solid shot. I have no bar shot, nor chain. Grape, I can give you some, but you must use it sparingly. You should not need grape in taking merchantmen, you would only use it if you were attacked.”

  “It is mid-afternoon. Should there not be carpenters at work on these gun carriages?”

  They exited, and Dent locked the door behind them. “He works in the morning. Afternoons he attends his other employment.”

  “Did I understand you to say ‘he,’ in the singular, and he works but half a day?”

  “Yes, though he does have a helper.” Bliven’s look of astonishment prompted Dent to further explanation. “Commander, do you remember what I said when you first arrived?”

  “I remember it very well. You said, ‘Welcome to the end of the world.’ I wondered what you meant by it.”

  “You must realize this sooner or later. In the supplying of naval stations, Charleston stands at the end of the line with an empty bowl. I would say that half my letters for requisitions are never even answered. In a way, I understand it, for the great ships sail from New York and Boston, or the Chesapeake. But Charleston is the rear door to the heart of the country. I do know that they realize its importance, for they have done well with rebuilding the city’s fortifications, Fort Moultrie, and so on. But they feel that is enough, and of naval strength—pah!—I have two gunboats, and you.”

  “Well, you don’t have me yet; my guns are lying in the armory.”

  “Here is the magazine.” Dent unlocked the door of a squat stone building with walls more than two feet thick. There were no windows, the only light from the open door, but enough to see tall rows of stacked twenty-five-pound wooden quarter-casks fastened with copper hoops.

  Bliven ran his hand over the nearest one. “How old is the powder?”

  “I’ve no idea,” admitted Dent. “I asked the same question of the previous commandant, and it had been here throughout his tenure. He did not know where it came from.”

  “That is not good hearing. How often is it turned?”

  “Not since I’ve been here, frankly.”

  “Well, I’m sure you will agree that it must be thoroughly tested before we put it aboard.”

  “Yes.” Dent seemed disappointed that questioning the state of the powder would even have occurred to him. “Yes, of course.”

  Bliven lifted one quarter-cask and listened to the rustle of the powder shifting within. As he expected, it was not completely full but had an air space to allow the powder to mix when the barrels were turned. Each twelve-pounder required four pounds of powder for each shot. A full discharge of twenty guns on board would require four casks of powder; carrying ten rounds per gun would be forty casks; twenty rounds, eighty casks. Quickly Bliven concluded that he would not sail with fewer than a hundred sixty casks, and that at a minimum. “Well, let us have a look at my vessel.”

  She grew larger in their sight as they approached, and Bliven’s heart grew with the hope that she would be in better preparedness than the guns or the powder.

  “As you see,” said Dent, “we have fashioned her into a sloop-of-war, one hundred twelve feet long, thirty-two feet in the beam, four hundred twenty tons. Ship rigged.”

  “What does she draw?”

  “Fourteen feet.”

  “Really?” Bliven was surprised. “That is rather deep for a ship this size.” He pointed down at her waterline. “I don’t suppose there is any chance of copper sheathing down there.”

  “Ha! No, no. That’s why the Jamaicans build their ships out of cedar. The resin resists the seaworms for a while, and by the time they do burrow in, the ship is paid off without having the expense of the copper.”

  “Ah, yes.” Of course, Jamaica was British, and would follow the British custom of expensing out their ships, like bookkeepers, rather than keeping them serviceable as long as they could.

  “How old is she?”

  “No one has any idea. We hove her down briefly, the hull is still in good shape.”

  They ascended a gangplank to her open waist, and Bliven’s first thought upon hearing the hollow thump of his boots on the weather deck was of its apparent thinness.

  “Only one ladder,” noted Bliven. “That could be a hindrance, if we get into a fight.” His gaze ascended, and he saw she was rigged for three courses of sail. They walked aft along the open hatch, the grate having been removed for the rebuilding. Bliven turned the wheel idly and it offered no resistance, for the tiller was not engaged. “How many crew have you signed so far?”

  “None.”

  Bliven shot him an angry look.

  “By order of the Department,” added Dent in defensive haste. “The monthly outlay for the crew of this vessel is calculated at about one thousand four hundred dollars per month. Knowing now that there is an abundance of beached sailors in Charleston trapped here owing to the war, the Department is interested not to have to start spending that money before they are wanted.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Let me show you your cabin,” said Dent, and he led the way down t
he ladder. The berth deck terminated forward at the galley, with a smaller camboose than Bliven remembered from the Constitution, and they would arrange a sick bay in the bow. There was no proper wardroom, but there were two tiny staterooms on either side of a sort of vestibule, then a door to the captain’s cabin, which they entered.

  “I took the liberty,” said Dent. “I did not think you would want to stay ashore once you got here, so we have made up your cabin—food, linens, and so on.” Three large stern windows amply lit the compartment. “Your privy just there.” It was a tiny enclosed closet, to which he did not object. The captain’s privy on the Constitution was open to the quarter gallery, and while no one could intrude on the moment, Bliven always wondered if it did not feel a bit queer to relieve oneself in front of God and all the seagulls.

  “That is very kind, thank you, you guessed correctly. Let us go below.”

  Lacking an orlop, the ladder descended all the way to the bottom of the hold, lit somewhat by the smaller hatch to the berth deck. “How much ballast did she carry?”

  “We removed about six tons,” answered Dent.

  Bliven sighted as carefully down her keelson as the light permitted, searching for any sign of hogging, although he well knew that by the time such a distension became visible, it had also become dangerous. “Well, I’ll bet she’s never carried forty tons of guns topside. I will feel better if we put in about ten tons.”

  “Yes, I agree,” said Dent.

  He looked fore-and-aft and back again. “Why, the entire hold is open,” he said in astonishment, “from forepeak to afterpeak.”

  “Yes,” answered Dent.

  The footings for the masts seemed well enough, and two pipes of joined elm trees descended to open beside the keelson to suck up bilge water. A few vertical beams on the center line aided the knees in supporting the deck, but that was the entirety of interior strength. “It is like an eggshell! We must have a powder magazine that is closed off from the rest of the ship, and a handling room, and racks for the shot. We will need at least one compartment forward for a sail room and stores.”

  With each item Bliven listed, Dent appeared more and more exasperated. “Yes, yes, we will get to that, but you must appreciate the limits of my budget. I have been allocated only so much money to rebuild this vessel, and you must accept that you are no longer in the largest frigate in the world!”

  For a moment they glared at each other. “Do you not find her seaworthy?” demanded Dent.

  “She is seaworthy,” he replied. “She is not battleworthy. I do not require a large ship, I fought quite well enough on the Enterprise, thank you. But I will not risk a hundred human lives in this vessel until she is something better than a Viking funeral waiting to happen.”

  “Well, we are both tired,” said Dent. “I will have your trunks sent aboard. Get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow we will decide what priorities to tend first.”

  After sundown, Bliven removed his fire syringe from the sea bag and lit several candles. He was not unfamiliar with the operation of a camboose, and with some adjusting of its vents was able to quickly fry some eggs and ham, and brew coffee. Afterward he carried two candles back down into the hold. He sat down on the bottom rung and thought, They are sending me to my death.

  CHARLESTON HARBOR

  15TH SEPTEMBER, 1812

  My dear Mrs. Bandy,

  I wish to let you know that I arrived in Charleston some days since, to assume command of my ship, the Tempest. She still wants interior construction before she will be suitable for service, and then she must be supplied, and a crew drawn in. Therefore, time does not press.

  It would afford me great pleasure to call on you and ascertain for myself whether there is anything I can do for you during the hardship of our Sam’s captivity, if there is a convenient time when I might come.

  Be pleased to address your correspondence to me through the Navy Yard, in Charleston. If you do so, I will hope to receive it. The hostility toward the federal government on the part of many people in this section is perceptible and their distemper extends even to the Navy, which is here for their protection. This is a mystery to me, and I hope does not extend to failing to deliver our mail.

  Yrs. with great respect,

  Bliven Putnam

  Master Comdt., USN

  Mrs. Rebecca Bandy

  Abbeville Plantation,

  So. Carolina

  It required a few days to test the stock of powder in the magazine, but Bliven found Captain Dent attentive to it. In the safety of the magazine, a team of three opened each of the twenty-five-pound quarter-casks in turn, weighing out four pounds of powder and stitching them into round linen sacks, careful to number each to note the barrel it had come from. In a quarter of the casks, the powder had caked and was useless. “It is as we feared,” Dent said to Bliven, quietly adding himself to Bliven’s doubtfulness whether the powder was viable, and ordered those casks discarded.

  Their smaller gunboat had a twelve-pounder mounted upon her bow, and Dent assembled a gun crew from among his yard crew of thirty, six men who had fired guns before. With Bliven and Dent aboard they rowed to the openness of Charleston’s outer harbor and anchored in shallows, facing seaward.

  Following the drill specified in the manual, the gun was leveled and loaded, the quoin removed to nest the gun in its standard elevation. Bliven turned to Dent. “Are you ready to begin, Captain?”

  “Proceed.”

  “Fire,” said Bliven quietly.

  The morning stillness was rent, not by an exploding report but a loud, hissing foom that expelled the ball from the barrel. They saw it emerge, watched it fly, and observed its splash a hundred feet away.

  “Well, Captain Dent,” said Bliven. “Do you think we might mark that cask as suitable for very close engagement?”

  “Damn,” mumbled the captain.

  Of the morning’s test, three of the charges expelled a ball to a normal range of six hundred yards. Most shot between two and three hundred yards. “I see no course but to empty the magazine and begin again,” said Dent sourly. “What powder we have that is still viable, we must assume could turn at any time. I will requisition new stores with the greatest urgency.”

  Bliven could not express his wash of relief without also revealing his doubt of Dent’s sensibility. “Yes, I agree. Do you think they will tend to it promptly?”

  “We shall see,” Dent answered, “but now you are here, and you may begin sharing in my waiting games. Gentlemen,” he said to those of his yard crew who had pulled them out into the bay, “you may row us back to the wharf.”

  Dent sat next to him as the men hauled in their anchor and began pulling their sweeps. “I am going to hire a second carpenter with helpers to begin making compartments in the hold of your ship. You will understand that we cannot transform her into some little ship of the line, but I agree that a magazine and handling room are essential, and racks for the shot. In the mean, I authorize you to engage not an entire crew but the essentials whom you will have to rely upon, first and second mates, sailing master, and bosun.”

  “Aye, sir.” Bliven nodded. “A few have already approached me on this matter. In my head I had composed a handbill to post in the taverns, but now I think that will not be necessary. The men I have spoken to seem competent, have good experience, and have many acquaintances hereabouts. I am inclined to trust their judgments more than just issue a call to all and sundry.”

  It required only two days for the skeleton crew to assemble, eager enough to sign up for the Navy’s twelve dollars per month, and it encouraged him to hear the sawing and hammering begin in the hold below his cabin. With work well in hand, Dent agreed that Bliven might take a few days to call upon the wife of his former shipmate and satisfy himself of her welfare, which was timely as he was called down the gangplank to speak with an elderly Negro who had descended from a carriage, and presented him wi
th a letter.

  ABBEVILLE, S.C.

  20TH SEPT. 1812

  My Dear Commander Putnam,

  This salutation seems to embrace a promotion since last you corresponded with my husband, therefore congratulations for recognition that is surely deserved.

  Thank you for your favor of the 15th inst. Since receiving it I have engaged, and acted upon, some basic arithmetic. You state that time does not press while your ship is being finished out, and you ask when it might be convenient for me to receive you. The partial sum is that I am anxious to receive you at your first opportunity. As my own driver can move as fast as the mail, and you seem free to come, the full sum is that I am sending a carriage for you. This letter will be handed to you by our driver, Mose. He is plausible and capable, and entirely to be trusted with whatever you require. You need take no trouble for him, for, if you cannot come at once, he has people in Charleston with whom he can stay until you are free.

  My hope is that you can come straightaway, for we are all most keen to have you visit us. I gather from your letter that you have no more recent news of our poor Sam, whose fate has me in knots of anxiety, but surely, even the English would not harm such a useful and capable sailor—as long as he can keep his temper in check. Do come!

  Yr. sincere friend,

  Rebecca Bandy

  Bliven Putnam, Master

  Comdt., U.S.N.

  Charleston Navy Yard

  Bliven had to smile. Rebecca had not changed, still direct and practical. He regarded the man still before him, surely past sixty but straight, silver stubble on his face. “You are Mose, then.”