by John Jakes
Near the wheel, Captain Hull continued to bob up and down, his linen underdrawers showing through the tear in his trousers. As Guerriere’s mast crashed across her rail, Hull waved a fist. “Huzzah, boys! We’ve made a brig of her! Next time we’ll make her a sloop!”
iii
The British gunners still seemed unable to inflict much damage on Constitution, but the American fire was highly effective. As he passed shot and powder forward, the procedure almost automatic by now, Jared tried to figure out why.
When the smoke blew away enough to permit it, he studied Guerriere’s badly ripped hull, noting the exact moment at which her cannons went off. At last he saw the difference.
She tended to fire as she rolled upward on cresting waves. Hence the principal damage she did occurred aloft. Constitution’s gunners, on the other hand, usually fired on the down-roll, taking their toll on the enemy’s deck, and hulling her in the bargain.
A few more men aboard the American frigate had been wounded. Jared still avoided looking at them; the nausea, barely manageable, was with him every moment.
Except for the humiliating sickness—and a growing ache in his arms and shoulders—he did his job as if he’d been at it for years. The first few broadsides had terrified him. Now he hardly glanced up as the batteries roared.
Constitution changed course again. She swept across Guerriere’s bow, then put her helm hard to larboard. Orders were barked—stand by for another broadside!
The frigate began to veer back before the wind. Her larboard gun crews readied their slow matches. Oliver Prouty swiped his face with his wrist, peering into the gray billows around the tops. “We got some of our braces shot away. She’s not falling off fast enough—”
The significance of that escaped Jared until a few moments later, when he heard alarmed cries aft. He whirled, squinted through the smoke—and saw a sight that froze him. Like the prow of a phantom ship materializing, Guerriere’s jib boom and bowsprit appeared in the smoke.
Prouty yelled, “She’s going to hit us—!”
The enemy’s bowsprit thrust against the American’s larboard stern quarter with a prolonged grinding noise. The impact splintered the taffrail and crushed the stem longboat.
Almost instantly, the British frigate dropped into Constitution’s wake—or tried. A man pointed. “She’s fouled on the mizzen rigging!”
A moment later, sheets of fire seemed to leap from Constitution’s fighting tops. The marines aloft raked the enemy’s deck with their rifles.
Tangled, the two ships bobbed on the swells, their rails not six feet apart. A voice screamed from the fore-top: “They’re preparing to board!”
Someone near Constitution’s wheel—Jared couldn’t see who—took quick action. “Boarders away!”
“Come on, Jared!” Prouty exclaimed, pulling his friend aft.
They scrambled along the gangway amidships, men running behind and ahead of them; all except the few hands responsible for the sails had left their stations and headed for the cutlass racks.
The rifle fire from the tops thickened the smoke even more. Above the din, Jared heard men shriek aboard Guerriere as the marines hit their targets.
But the enemy, too, had sharpshooters aloft. A man just in front of Jared took a ball in the shoulder and pitched against the rail. Jared made the mistake of glancing at him. Blood stained the man’s blouse; big, bright patches of blood—
“Keep moving or you’ll be trampled!” Prouty screamed behind him, shoving. Jared dashed on.
They seized cutlasses from their assigned racks. A few yards aft near the larboard rail, Lieutenant Morris doubled over suddenly, gut-shot by a ball from a British pistol half a dozen feet away. A lieutenant of marines clambered up on Guerriere’s fouled bowsprit, searching the blowing smoke for his commanding officer:
“Captain Hull? Shall we boar—?”
A ball hit his forehead, drove him to the deck. Jared swallowed the bile in his mouth, closed his fingers tight around the cutlass hilt. At the enemy’s rail, he could see the British sailors milling. One side or the other would seize the advantage at any moment, and cross the bowsprit—
He watched Captain Hull bend over the fallen Morris. The first lieutenant grimaced, took Hull’s hand, struggled to his feet. The front of Morris’ coat was a red ruin. Bone-pale, he pressed his hands against his wound. Slimy red coils showed between his fingers—
Jared gagged. Morris’ stomach had been torn open. Yet he was up and moving, literally holding his own entrails.
Hull spun away, sword drawn, as if he intended to lead the boarders personally. Morris reached for the captain’s shoulder with one gory hand. Hull whirled, in a fury until he saw who had taken hold of him.
Morris ripped one epaulette from Hull’s uniform, then the other.
“Now—” he gasped. “Now you won’t make such a prize target—”
Hull understood, clapped a hand on his lieutenant’s arm. Both men disappeared as heavy clouds of smoke rolled across the stern.
The din of rifle and pistol fire had become continuous. Jared and Prouty pushed and shoved, but a crowd of men, uncertain as to their orders, prevented forward movement. Jared’s left foot slipped. He didn’t dare look down. The deck was slick with blood. Men lay everywhere, wounded or dead—
Jared’s ears began to ring. All the blood started him trembling violently.
Prouty pushed him. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Go to the left! Around the wheel! These simpletons may want to stand here, but I want to get aboard Guerriere!”
Jared swayed, let Prouty circle away from him, past the wheel on the starboard side. The crowd was beginning to break up, move toward the stern. Jared stumbled after his friend—and came to a halt again a few steps aft of the wheel.
A dead seaman lay at his feet, blouse pierced by three balls. Jared was so mesmerized by the sight of the man’s bloodied torso, he completely forgot his own danger—until another British ball chewed the deck a yard to the right.
Flying splinters stung his cheeks and throat, jolting him back to reality. The tumult of confused voices and small arms fire—suddenly blending with another long, crunching noise—made his head throb.
Aboard Guerriere, the wails and groans of the wounded were unbelievably loud, a chorus of condemned men howling in hell. Jared’s eyes stung; the smoke was thick again. He could hardly see anyone.
To larboard, the smoke parted slightly. Jared lurched in that direction, saw another sailor spin around and fall. The grinding noise grew louder—the sound of the two frigates tearing apart, driven off from each other by the heavy waves.
Rigging broke. Wood snapped. Jared stumbled into lines tumbling from overhead. Guerriere separated just as the Americans were massing at her bowsprit, finally organized to board.
Watching from a good twenty feet away, Jared spied Oliver Prouty at the fringe of the boarding party. The Charleston boy was scowling and flourishing his cutlass. He dropped to his knees with a stunned look as a chance shot from one of Guerriere’s two remaining tops blew away the back of his head.
“Ollie!” Jared screamed, slipping and sliding aft and to larboard at the same time. In a second, more smoke hid the boarders.
A hand from the smoke caught his arm.
“Let go, goddamn y—”
The yell died in his throat. Standing beside one of the aft guns, Sixth Lieutenant Stovall glared at him. In his other hand Stovall held a navy pistol.
Writhing, Jared tried to free himself from the lieutenant’s grip. He saw the round, black eye of the barrel pointed at his forehead. And behind it, Stovall’s crazed smile. “Everyone will think it was a British ball, won’t they, Mr. Kent?”
He shoved Jared backwards, away from the rail.
“Won’t they?”
Jared swung his cutlass as Stovall cocked the pistol. The lieutenant dodged the downward sweep of the blade. It struck something that vibrated. Jared heard the creak of carriage wheels—
Its right breech
ing rope severed by Jared’s cut, the cannon by which Stovall had been standing swung away from the rail. The left breeching rope snapped; the cannon was loose—
Stovall saw it coming, rolling slowly as the left side of the frigate lifted. Stovall released Jared’s arm. Both leaped back—but not before Jared swung his cutlass a second time.
The tip barely nicked Stovall’s jaw. Then the runaway cannon rumbled between them, the wheels narrowly missing Jared’s bare feet.
Stovall slapped a hand against his nicked chin as the deck tilted even more sharply. He stumbled to starboard, lost his footing, dropped his pistol, flailed wildly with both hands, seeking something to check his fall.
His hands closed on the muzzle of the cannon. He screamed.
A foul odor mingled with the reek of powder. The rest happened incredibly fast.
Already on his knees, Stovall pitched forward. As his hands slipped off the metal, the right side of his face slammed against the breech below the firing pan. His second, piercing shriek testified to the searing heat. The cannon slid out from under him and rolled on to come to a jolting stop against the far rail.
In the smoke, men were still swarming aft on both sides of Jared. Several had leaped clear of the runaway cannon, but not a one paid any attention to the fallen lieutenant midway between the two rails; he was just another floundering casualty.
Screaming again, Stovall writhed on his back, both hands clutching his right cheek. All at once a stain spread at his crotch.
He fainted. His hands fell to his sides. Jared saw reddened facial tissue. The odor of burned flesh was overpowering—
Guerriere’s batteries roared. Constitution shivered as round shot burst the rear wall of Captain Hull’s great cabin. In a moment, flames licked upward over the stern. A fire crew assembled, disappeared in the gray billows—
The two frigates had separated completely. Jared snatched up Stovall’s pistol, discharged it at the barely visible bow of the other ship. As far as he could see, he hit nothing. No wonder. His hand was trembling.
In despair, he threw the pistol away. He turned toward the bow, walking as best he could on the treacherous deck. I should go back, he thought. Go back and make certain Stovall’s dead—
He couldn’t. He was too weak from the shock of what had just happened. Too overcome with sickness from the sight of bleeding men. He let the cutlass drop from his other hand. He fell against the rail as the opposite side of the ship rose. He seized the rail, thrust his head over, violently sick—
When he raised his head, he saw Guerriere astern—and blinked in disbelief. Not one of her three masts remained.
Her deck was a litter of broken wood, ripped sail, tangled cordage. On the quarterdeck, her captain was being supported by two of his officers. Even at this distance, Jared clearly saw the large, dark stain on the back of the captain’s uniform.
“She’s done, by heaven!”
Hearing Hull shout somewhere in the smoke, men all over the ship began to cheer. But not Jared. He remembered Stovall. And Oliver Prouty—
Ollie was dead. Dead. How could that be?
Tears came to his eyes.
They were gone a few moments later when he stumbled back to the spot where Stovall had fallen.
The ship’s sixth lieutenant was nowhere to be seen.
iv
In the lowering light, the two frigates continued to roll in the heavy sea, guns silent. Constitution was damaged but Guerriere was totally out of action. As the smoke gradually cleared, a tatter of white became visible on the enemy quarterdeck.
An officer strode to Isaac Hull’s side. The little captain was grimy now. During the engagement his other trouser leg had split.
The officer called Hull’s attention to the wigwagging white square. “I believe she’s asking quarter, Captain.”
“Well she might. There’s not a stick left standing for showing a flag—white or any other kind. What the devil is that man waving, Lieutenant Read?”
“As nearly as I can make out, sir, a tablecloth.”
Isaac Hull’s face looked as merry as Jared had ever seen it. “Take a boat. Find out whether she has actually struck.”
“I’m sure she has, sir. But I’ll go at once—” Hull caught him as he left. “Read—”
“Sir?”
“See to Jimmy Dacres. I watched him take a ball in the back when she fouled us.” The captain was no longer smiling.
v
Shortly after seven o’clock, a returning boat brought Guerriere’s captain alongside. Hull himself went to the ladder as men assisted Dacres up to the victor’s deck.
Near the top of the ladder, Dacres paled visibly. Jared saw it from his place at the rail. He was crowded among men and boys eager for the sight of a British captain surrendering to one of the Americans his admiralty scorned. But all Jared could think of was Stovall, and the way he’d botched his one chance to put an end to the threat Stovall represented—
Captain Hull put on his half-moon hat, stepped to the head of the ladder. “Dacres, give me your hand. I know you’re hurt.”
James Dacres replied with an oath. Hull backed away, waiting until the wounded skipper negotiated the rail.
Dacres approached Hull with an unsteady step. Blood stained his coat front and back. He looked ready to faint. Yet he managed to give his opponent a salute.
“My compliments, Captain Hull.” He groped downward, grudging admiration and bitterness mingling in his voice. “You’ve earned my sword—”
Suddenly Dacres’ head jerked up. Hull had stayed the hand struggling to unfasten the blade.
“No, Jimmy. I won’t take a sword from one who knows how to use it so well. I will, however, trouble you for your hat.”
Dacres almost smiled. But the cries of anguish still drifting across the chop from the foundering Guerriere prevented that. Dacres took off his half-moon hat, handed it to Hull. The American captain slipped the hat beneath one arm.
“Come to my cabin, Jimmy. I’m told they’ve put out the fire. We’ll get our surgeon to dig out that ball you took.”
“Not until my wounded are looked after.”
“Of course. I’ll see they’re brought aboard at once.” He took Dacres’ elbow.
“Isaac, let me ask you a question. What have you got for men in the tops?”
“My marines? Only a parcel of green bushwackers.”
“Backwoodsmen?”
“According to your admirals.”
Dacres caught the irony, shook his head. “You outsailed me. You outgunned me. Why the hell you weren’t hulled as I was—”
“Live oak,” Hull interrupted. “Your architects hold it in contempt, remember?”
Dacres flushed. “Be that as it may, one battle isn’t the war.”
As Hull led him to a ladderway, the British captain suddenly glanced back at his ship. “You can’t put a prize crew aboard her, can you, Isaac?”
“I doubt it. She’s too badly riddled.” Hull pointed. “With the sea so heavy, she’s shipping water through her gun ports. I’ll have to blow her up tomorrow.”
Captain Dacres looked as grieved as if he’d lost a relative, Jared thought.
“One favor, then.”
“It’s yours.”
“In my cabin there’s a Bible. Given me years ago by my mother. I’ve carried it ever since I first went to sea.”
“I’ll see it’s recovered and restored to you,” Hull said, handing Dacres into the care of two seamen who helped him down the ladder.
Before Hull followed, he moved briefly among the men standing nearest to him. He shook a hand here, murmured a word of praise there. He never reached Jared. A shout summoned him to the surgeon’s quarters, where Lieutenant Morris was being attended. Hull waddled to the ladderway and vanished, torn pants first, stained coat sans epaulettes next, round face last of all.
God, Jared admired the man’s skill and courage. As innocent-looking as a rustic, Hull had been masterful during the engagement. If there were
a few more captains like him, the outlook for America might not be as gloomy as many of her citizens believed—
By this time Jared had regained a measure of calm. He started asking questions, and discovered Sixth Lieutenant Stovall had been taken to the surgery. The news reinforced his sense of having failed at the critical moment, and kept him from sharing the festive mood that accompanied the process of cleaning up the frigate. He didn’t drink the extra ration of grog ordered for all hands. And he slept poorly.
No one hung up a hammock in the place Ollie Prouty had occupied only twenty-four hours ago.
vi
On August thirtieth, Constitution dropped anchor a mile and a half southeast of the Boston light.
A few hours later, she moved to Nantasket Roads. She sent a boat ashore with news of her stunning success—and with a request that facilities be readied for the prisoners and wounded from Guerriere, whose ruined hull had been torched and sunk at sea.
The party returning from shore brought a curious report. Despite New England’s hatred of the war, most of the city had paradoxically gone wild with joy at word of the victory.
Constitution’s triumph offset discouraging news from the west: in mid-August, General William Hull had surrendered Detroit to General Isaac Brock without firing so much as one shot. The officer in charge of the landing party said people were already clamoring for General Hull’s court-martial. Captain Hull made no mention of the fact that the general was his uncle. Jared had to learn it from a seaman.
In the ten days since the engagement, everyone had taken to calling the frigate by a new nickname—Old Ironsides. A new pride had kept the crew working cheerfully at their duties. The atmosphere had somewhat restored Jared’s spirits, too. He slowly forgot the grim sea burial of the dead from both sides—fourteen Americans and seventy-nine British.
He took added encouragement from what he learned from boys who worked for the surgeon’s mates. Yes, Lieutenant Stovall was alive. But the pain of his injury kept him unconscious most of the time. He had suffered severe facial burns in an accidental fall against a hot cannon.