The Seekers

by John Jakes

  Once more Jared risked a look back, saw Sixth Lieutenant Stovall, now in full uniform, climb up from below.

  Stovall spotted Jared. His expression made it plain the boy would be punished. Jared guessed the lieutenant would charge him with a long list of infractions, so he could be given the maximum penalty for each.

  As if to confirm it, Stovall touched fingertips to the forward edge of his braided half-moon hat, a mock salute. Then he pivoted and walked smartly toward Captain Huh, the center of a growing crowd of excited men aft of the mizzen.

  ii

  Still limp from what had happened in Stovall’s cabin, Jared joined the other boys. Oliver Prouty elbowed a place for him, then leaned out over the rail. He pointed at the scrap of sail.

  “Caught sight of her at two sharp. I’ve already laid six bets that she’s a Britisher.”

  The ship hidden below the horizon appeared to be bearing east-southeast. If that were true, her course would take her across Constitution’s bow. Jared stared at the sail in a vacant way.

  The Charleston boy noticed, brushed windblown hair out of his eyes, took hold of his friend’s arm. “You’re white. What the hell’s wrong?”

  “I—” Jared wiped his mouth. “I had to pay a visit to Stovall’s quarters.”

  Oliver Prouty blinked, searched the aft part of the spar deck. “I see him near the wheel.”

  “Looks mad as the devil, too,” one of the other boys said.

  The sea blinded Jared with its glare as he swung around. Positioned between the sailing master and First Lieutenant Morris, Stovall was attempting to get Hull’s attention. Jared knew what the Sixth Lieutenant wanted to say.

  Hull wasn’t interested. Eyes shielded with one hand, he watched the setting of canvas in preparation for pursuit of the other vessel. There were scores of men aloft. But all the masthead flags had been hauled down.

  Once more Stovall spoke to Hull. The captain’s dumpling face reddened. He said something sharp to the lieutenant. Jared thought he could make out two words: Not now.

  Stovall withdrew, scarlet. Oliver Prouty bent his head close. “What happened in his cabin?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You mean he—?”

  “He tried.”

  “And you hollered?”

  “Worse than that. I had my knife out, ready to cut him up.”

  “Jesus! You’re in for it.”

  Jared nodded. “At this point, I’d probably be better off jumping in the ocean. He’ll have the cat on my back as soon as he can.”

  “Well,” Prouty said, “that ship’s bought you a little time. Hull won’t put his mind to anything else until we’ve learned whether she’s friend or foe. If they beat to quarters—”

  “When they beat to quarters,” said another boy. “From the size of that sail, she’s got to be a big ship—and you’ve already wagered she’s British.”

  Prouty nodded. “So little Isaac will fight. Look at him! He’s so excited, he can’t stand still!”

  Prouty’s expression grew sly. “Suppose we do engage. You can always hope some metal from the enemy’s cannon puts Lieutenant Handsome out of commission. Or that something happens to him—”

  Jared looked at his friend, comprehension slow in coming. Prouty’s eyes were unblinkingly cruel.

  “I never thought of that. Lieutenant Stovall could be one of those killed, couldn’t he?”

  “With things confused—cannon going off—marines sniping from the tops—any man can be killed—” Prouty snapped his fingers. “That quick.”

  Slowly, Jared moved his gaze to another of the young, tanned faces around him.

  Then to a second.

  A third.

  A fourth—

  What he saw in those faces was chilling. He recognized an unspoken promise. The boys would protect him with their silence.

  He ran a hand over his forehead. That Hamilton Stovall was both unbalanced and vengeful, he didn’t doubt for a moment. And it would be so easy. During gun drills, he’d seen how much smoke just a few of the cannon produced. Imagine the smoke from an entire broadside—clouds of it—to make faces indistinct, conceal one quick stroke of the Spanish knife—

  God, he was tempted.

  Prouty sensed his hesitancy. “If you don’t do something, I can tell you what’ll happen. Stovall will have you punished so hard, you’ll be lucky not to be crippled for life. Even if you take the cat and pull through, you’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of the voyage, wondering when he’s going to come at you—”

  Prouty’s hand closed on Jared’s forearm.

  “Do it, Jared. Do it.”

  Jared started to say yes. An image of his uncle flashed into his mind. His shoulders slumped.

  “I can’t, Ollie. I want to, but I can’t.”

  Scowling, Prouty studied his crestfallen friend. After a moment, he gave a resigned shrug. “All right. It’s your skin. You know you’re being a fool.”

  “I know. I’ll just have to take my chances.”

  Waves thundered against Constitution’s hull. All sails set, she bore off on a course to intercept the stranger. As Jared watched the horizon, he could almost feel Hamilton Stovall’s eyes on his back.

  Chapter V

  “Her Sides Are Made of Iron!”

  i

  BY HALF-PAST THREE, NO doubt remained. The sails of the ship Constitution was chasing identified her as a member of the frigate class.

  By four, her hull was in sight. Jared could make out small figures scurrying on her deck. From the wheel, word was passed that the captain had definitely identified the stranger as Guerriere.

  The American frigate drew closer, running in front of the stiff northwest breeze. Her bow rose and plunged in the heavy swells. The deck tilted at increasingly extreme angles.

  About half past four, Hull ordered tampions removed from the muzzles of all cannon.

  At a quarter of five, he began rattling a stream of orders. The topgallants, the staysails and the flying jib were hauled in, the topsails reefed a second time, the royal yards sent down and the courses sent up. A final order started the drummers beating to quarters. All over the spar deck, men and boys joined in three loud cheers.

  Everyone scrambled to battle stations. Jared kicked off his shoes just as the others did; bare skin held a bloody deck more firmly than leather. He stripped off his shirt; lint festering in a wound could bring on gangrene—and amputation. As he took his position on the fo’c’sle, he almost forgot about the ominous presence of Lieutenant Hamilton Stovall, aft.

  About half the boys were assigned to running back and forth between the orlop and the upper decks, bringing shot and leather buckets of powder to the guns. Jared, Prouty and three other boys formed a chain on the fo’c’sle to pass the powder and shot to the forward gun crews.

  Constitution plowed ahead under shortened sail. Top-men came scrambling down as the last of the drumrolls died away under the steady crash of the waves. The gunners were busy checking the breeching ropes of the fo’c’sle carronades. The ropes, secured to the rail timbers through eyebolts, prevented the cannon from recoiling too far.

  Working next to Jared, Oliver Prouty seemed in high spirits. “Just heard they’re double-shotting the twenty-fours down on the gun deck. Round and grape’ll bloody the fucking British quick enough!”

  Jared shivered. He had never seen grapeshot used. But he’d heard about the effects of the small iron balls wrapped in canvas around a wooden dowel, then secured to a wood disc that slid into the cannon’s muzzle; the whole split and flew apart when fired, filling the air with murderous fragments of metal.

  Guerriere showed every intention of fighting. She’d already backed her main topsail, and was no longer making headway. Captain Hull bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, alternately observing the enemy through his glass and snapping orders.

  Constitution bore down on the other ship, approaching with her bowsprit pointed at Guerriere’s starboard bow. Jared heard
one of the fo’c’sle gunners complain that Hull was playing a dangerous game. From her current position, the American would only be able to fire a couple of the twenty-fours mounted in the bow. Guerriere, on the other hand, would be able to rake with a full starboard broadside.

  The clang of the ship’s bell told Jared it was five o’clock. A moment later, men began to point and curse. A familiar and despised scarlet ensign was being run up each of Guerriere’s three masts.

  Slow matches wrapped around iron linstocks curled acrid smoke into the air beside each gun. Jared judged the frigates to be less than two miles apart. The Britisher was rolling violently in the whitecapped swells.

  All around him, he smelled sweat. Saw hands raised to rub watering eyes. Marines in groups of seven—one to fire, six others to reload the rifles for the marksman—were climbing quietly to the fighting tops.

  Amidships, Lieutenant Morris called out, “Shall we give her a shot to catch her attention, sir?”

  Hull’s voice carried all the way forward. “Mr. Morris, I will tell you when and where to fire. Stand ready—and see not a single shot is thrown away.”

  The frigates drew closer together.

  Closer—

  Jared saw a single puff of smoke erupt from Guerriere. A second later, he heard the slam of the explosion.

  Almost at once, the enemy’s entire starboard side poured out smoke and thunder. Men aboard Constitution jerked their heads up—the Britisher’s shot would hit high if it hit at all.

  Not a single round found a target. The accuracy of the guns depended on the precise moment of firing, Jared knew. Someone aboard the enemy had miscalculated—given the order to fire just as the starboard side rose on the up-swell of a wave.

  He whirled around, saw and heard the British cannon-balls raise huge, noisy geysers of water—every round having traveled all the way over Constitution’s masts.

  Guerriere immediately began to wear around to bring her larboard batteries to bear. Hull shouted so everyone on deck could hear. “Men, do your duty now! Your officers can’t command you every minute. You must each do everything in your power for your country—!”

  Then he called for flags.

  Wild cheering broke out as the three jacks traveled up their lines to snap in the wind at the three mastheads. On the mizzen, a huge seventeen-star ensign unfurled. New eighteen-star flags, recognizing the addition of Louisiana to the union in April, had yet to be supplied to the navy.

  On Hull’s next command, the forward gun crews swung into action. Smoldering linstocks dipped. The bow chasers boomed. But the shots dropped into the sea well short of the enemy.

  Jared was fascinated by the agility of the gunners.

  When fired, the twenty-fours recoiled like juggernauts, their carriages slamming backwards from the open ports and jerking the breeching ropes so taut Jared fancied he could hear the thick lines whine. The moment the recoil spent itself, a member of the gun crew shoved the rammer into the muzzle. Once all sparks were swabbed out, reloading could safely begin.

  Because Constitution’s first shots had missed, the bow chaser crews grumbled about their error as they worked. They’d mistimed their fire by a second or so, and profanely swore it wouldn’t happen again.

  Guerriere had come about. Her larboard batteries began to spout smoke and orange fire. Some shot plopped into the water midway between the two vessels. But a few rounds struck quite close to the American, raining water on Jared and the men nearby. Jared heard a peculiar thudding amidships, pivoted to see a gunner leaning over the high rail, pointing down at the hull.

  “That one hit us! But the ball bounced right off.”

  Grinning, he whirled back to the disbelievers in his crew. “I swear to God it bounced, lads. With that live oak, it’s like her sides are made of iron!”

  For almost an hour, the battle continued without much result. Guerriere kept wearing in order to rake with her starboard guns, then with those on the opposite side. But Hull was quick to respond, tacking and half-tacking so that most of the salvos fell short, or hit the sea where Constitution had been only moments before. Occasionally Hull ordered one or two shots. But no more.

  As the inconclusive chase wore on, Jared grew increasingly nervous. So did the men at the fo’c’sle guns. They were openly impatient with Hull’s tactics. Constitution was making slow headway, using the interval between the enemy’s broadsides to bear in closer and closer. But the captain still refused to commit the frigate’s full firepower.

  The light was beginning to fade from the towering clouds. Getting on toward twilight, Jared thought. Perhaps there’d be no decisive end to the engagement—

  A strange quiet descended. Guerriere’s guns were silent. She seemed to be standing completely still. Hull called for the main topgallants to be set. As men clambered aloft, he bawled another order, “Sailing master—lay her alongside!”

  Jared’s throat tightened. At last, Hull was taking the offensive. In moments, he felt the frigate surge forward—on a course that would carry her directly past the enemy’s larboard side—and larboard cannon.

  Bells clanged six o’clock. Steadily, Constitution drew up nearer the stern of Guerriere. Evidently some of the American fire had done damage; Jared saw hands aloft at the enemy’s mizzen, furiously rerigging lines.

  Out across Constitution’s starboard rail, he watched the frigate come abreast of Guerriere’s stern and pass it. Perhaps the distance of a pistol shot separated the vessels. He could pick out the braid-decorated uniform of the lean captain, Dacres, on the enemy’s quarterdeck.

  Guerriere’s larboard cannon began firing, stern batteries first. The sea echoed with the rolling thunder; fiery bursts at the muzzles brightened the darkening day.

  Geysers shot skyward between the ships. The American’s hull thumped several times as more enemy shot caromed off. Then a round struck amidships and penetrated with a tremendous crashing of timbers. Men screamed in pain.

  Shot ripped several of Constitution’s sails. Hull sent more men up to repair the damage. Impatience edged the voice of Lieutenant Morris. “Sir, we have men badly hit on the gun deck. When can we fire?”

  “Not yet, not yet!” Hull shouted back, clambering up on an arms chest in order to see the enemy more easily.

  The fo’c’sle gun crews tried to encourage one another during the enforced inaction. “They got blind men firing them guns. Can’t hit a thing.”

  “Must be ’cos they got no sights on their pieces the way we do.”

  “I seen three more rounds bounce off our sides, just as pretty as you please—”

  Slowly, inexorably, Constitution drew abreast of the British frigate, whose gun and spar deck cannon continued to boom intermittently. Overhead, the frigate’s canvas whined and cracked in the wind.

  Gunners standing to the right of their pieces blew on the smoldering lengths of cord to raise sparks, then lowered their hands as close to the priming pans as they dared. Jared stood motionless not far from one of the carronades, the powder and shot relay having suspended activity because of the lack of American fire.

  One of the carronade gunners gave his quoin a kick, making sure the elevating wedge was firmly in place. On Guerriere, Jared now saw faces clearly; he could even judge the relative ages of the men. My God, how close the frigates were running! Why didn’t Hull—?

  “On the next one, sir?” Morris shouted.

  “On the next one!” Hull replied, still balanced atop the arms chest, watching the slow rise of the rail in relation to the enemy’s hull.

  Suddenly he flung up his arms. “Now, sir—pour in the whole broadside!”

  Jared had never heard such noise. The deck shook beneath his feet as the forward gun deck batteries fired, then the midships batteries. The carronades on the fo’c’sle roared, and recoiled, billowing smoke from the depths of scorching-hot barrels. Starting at the bow, Constitution threw everything on her starboard side.

  Almost immediately, jubilant shouts rang from the tops. The marin
es aloft were the first to see the damage double-shotting had done to Guerriere’s masts and rigging. Jared saw it for himself when some of the thick smoke cleared.

  He saw another kind of damage, too. Aboard the enemy, men writhed on the deck and tumbled out of the rigging. A new sound blended with the last of the American cannon fire—cries of agony from the wounded and dying aboard Guerriere.

  Bouncing up and down on the arms chest, Captain Hull yelled even louder, “By heaven, that ship is ours!”

  The captain seemed oblivious to the fact that, in his excitement, he had split his trousers from crotch to knee.

  Men laughed. But not for long. In less than a minute, Constitution’s batteries reloaded and fired a second broadside.

  Hurriedly passing shot and powder buckets again, Jared coughed and gritted his teeth against the acutely painful roar of the fo’c’sle pieces. The carronades recoiled wildly on their wheeled carriages, checked only by the humming ropes. His world shrank to a small piece of deck, smoke-choked, filled with deafening crashes, hit by bursts of orange that glared, then quickly dimmed. In the hellish light, Oliver Prouty’s dirty, grinning face resembled some imp’s.

  Through rifts in the smoke, Jared saw men fallen on the deck. He saw blood, and felt the old, puzzling nausea begin to build in his belly. He fought it, but it grew stronger moment by moment, almost paralyzing him. His only relief came from avoiding a direct look at the wounded.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Constitution ran alongside Guerriere, suffering few hits from the enemy guns but doing devastating damage with her own.

  ii

  Shortly after six, Constitution’s broadsides broke Guerriere’s mizzen several feet above the deck. The Americans cheered as the huge mast began to topple, cordage and all.

  Jared watched screaming men plummet from the yards and rigging. Some fell in the sea. Others landed on the deck, the luckier ones dead or unconscious, the rest broken and twitching.