I smiled at his comment, glanced at Doctor Jackson, and said only, “Apparently Mister Crawford finds it less than inspirational.” The three of them smiled in agreement.
“Mister Inderwick: I collect you wished me to attend you? Is something – or should I say, someone – damaged in some fashion? Already?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir, yes. It appears that young Jamesson, one of our midshipmen, has been severely wounded by Venus. I fear it will be some time before he is able to resume his duties. I have heard navy men refer to ‘seven minutes with Venus, six months with Mercury.’ It is unlikely to be that long, but, as you know, treatment involves mercury both ingested and injected into…well, there. His is as bad a case of syphilis as I have ever seen, and seems, according to young Jamesson, to have come on most suddenly.” He arched his eyebrows as he said it; the action revealing more than his words.
James Inderwick was not a navy man; he had been enticed into signing on as assistant surgeon by our surgeon Doctor Clarke, whom he had met while they were both at Columbia College in New York. Inderwick had attended lectures at the medical school there but had not taken his medical degree, a minor issue that had little bearing on his current position. When Doctor Clarke took ill and had to leave the ship, young Inderwick was suddenly promoted by default to ship’s surgeon. Nevertheless, Clarke thought highly of him and so had Commodore Decatur – sufficient bona fides for me.
“Well then, so much for Mister Jamesson. We will have to find something for him to do that is not too demanding and allows him time for the treatments you will be administering. I shall speak to Captain Allen; he will want to know about one of his young gentlemen.”
Bladen chose that moment to appear, cast his gaze about the room before it settled on me, and immediately withdrew. In moments, he reappeared, this time bearing a pot of steaming coffee, which he offered to each of us, beginning with me, as appropriate.
“Bladen – where in heaven’s name did you find hot coffee? Cap’n Allen ordered the camboose doused during the morning watch, soon as cook fixed breakfast for the men. Weather ain’t eased off a bit since then, so I’d reckon he ain’t told anyone to fire ‘er up again.” I gratefully accepted the coffee he poured; after all, my not drinking it after Bladen had gotten it would not put the galley fire out – or make us safer from a fire, should there be a disaster!
Bladen looked around the table and said nothing, but his gaze seemed to hesitate on the surgeon. Inderwick caught the look, glanced at me, and colored somewhat.
“Uh, ahem, sir. That would have been me. I asked that the stove be relit. Needed boiled water for some treatment at sick call this morning. Don’t blame young Bladen – he only did what I asked of him. I was unaware that the captain had ordered it doused on account of the tempest. Can’t see it done any harm, though.” The surgeon spoke quietly, his color rising as he admitted his guilt, while his hands fluttered on the table, long fingers bouncing around like so many twigs in a stream.
“Very well, then, Mister Inderwick. As nothing untoward happened and the stove did not capsize – yet – we will forgive you. However, in the future please be so kind as to check with one of the officers first.” I smiled, hoping to take a bit of the sting out of my words, but felt justified in mildly chastising the man since a fire at sea is, short of sinking, about the worst thing to experience in a ship.
“Bladen, you may tell Cook to douse again the fire, if you please; it is too rough right now to risk it.” Inderwick spoke to the steward in the voice of an experienced seaman.
I noticed Levy was amused at the exchange and was waiting for him to offer a wry comment, but none was forthcoming. I nodded at the surgeon who had the grace to smile back. Levy pushed his chair back from the table, stood, and pulled his oiled canvas coat from the peg where it had been drying.
“I must absent myself, gentlemen, with your permission. I have to relieve Watson on deck. It would not do to be late, especially as I suspect Cap’n Allen remains on deck.”
“By all means, Uriah. I am sure Watson is ready to get below. Right nasty it is, up there.” As senior officer it was only appropriate for me to acknowledge Levy’s request. I did notice that Doctor Jackson nodded his acquiescence, mildly surprising at first blush but, on reflection, not a bit. He was unfamiliar with the ways of sea officers and their protocols.
The surgeon sipped his hot coffee, seemingly lost in thought; he stared into the distance, even though the distance in our case was a scant eight feet away. As if he suddenly became aware that I was still in the room, he turned to me and, with a frown, spoke.
“Mister Baldwin: I have been trying to recall who mentioned that you and our captain go back quite some time together, but I am failing miserably. Do you and Captain Allen indeed have a history?”
“We do; you have been told correctly, and it matters not a whit who might have mentioned it. It is surely not a secret! Cap’n Allen has sailed with several of our shipmates in previous commissions, not only with me. In point of fact, several of our young gentlemen came with him from United States, including your “wounded” Mister Jamesson. But perhaps our history, Allen’s and mine, that is, might be a bit more lengthy and colorful than some of the others.”
“Oh! Do tell! I would love to learn a bit more about our captain. I think I have more familiarity with Commodore Decatur than I do with Captain Allen.” He set his cup into the saucer, folded his hands in front of him, his long fingers intertwined, and looked at me, expectantly. Jackson, about to absent himself from the gathering, retook his seat, leaned back in his chair, and looked at me expectantly.
“No doubt. After all, was it not Decatur who actually agreed with Doctor Clarke to sign you on? I would assume he must have spent a bit of time with you prior to that.
“Well, as I said, Henry – that is to say, Cap’n Allen – and I do go back. Our careers have been intertwined since our midshipman days, in fact. Of course, he is senior to me, as you might expect.” I chuckled at my own humor and pressed on when I got no reaction from my civilian audience.
“When I received my warrant – that was in 1803 – I was assigned to Commodore Decatur’s brand new brig Argus, which was about to sail for the Mediterranean from Boston. Of course, Decatur was surely not a commodore then, just a lieutenant, but commanding a fine new vessel.” Inderwick’s eyes briefly grew large, questioningly.
“Yes, this very one!” I slapped the table to make my point, causing the surgeon to start. “We were off to fight the corsairs of North Africa in Commodore Preble’s squadron and, in spite of my innocence – or perhaps because of it – I was chafing at my lines for it! Little did I know what was in store for us.” Pausing, I stood to reach the coffee pot, which Bladen had left on the sideboard, secured by fiddles against the roll of the ship, and filled my cup, offering some to Inderwick at the same time. I was certain Watson would want some when he came below and was careful not to drain it. Doctor Jackson quickly waived me off with a curt gesture.
“While Allen and I did not sail together then, we crossed tacks many times, as he was in Preble’s squadron as well and we frequently were in company with each other’s ships once we reached the Mediterranean. He was a midshipman too, albeit some three years my senior. We did not actually ship together until 1807 when we were both in the cockpit in Chesapeake, due that summer to sail from Norfolk for the Med. Sadly, we did not make it; that would have been June of 1807.
“HMS Leopard, a British razee, stopped us just outside the Virginia Capes – in U.S. territorial waters, mind you – seeking some British deserters who they thought…”
“Excuse the interruption, Lieutenant. You used a term I am not sure I have ever heard before. ‘Razee,’ I believe you said?” queried Inderwick. “What, may I ask, would that be?”
“Quite simply, Mister Inderwick, a razee is a three-decked ship – often a ship-of-the-line – that’s been cut down to carry fewer guns, a smaller crew, and, sometimes, to improve the sailing qualities.
“May I continue the story, now?”
“Indeed, please proceed. And thank you for illuminating me, broadening my scant knowledge of things naval, if you will!”
“Where was I? Oh yes, Leopard had stopped us, looking for British deserters, whom they suspected might have signed our Articles. It was in that lopsided engagement where our captain really distinguished himself, firing the only American gun by taking a burning coal straight from the galley camboose to touch it off. The ship was so lumbered with stores and supplies as yet unstowed that his was the only gun that could be made ready to fire. Badly wounded by Leopard’s two broadsides, Chesapeake had to return to Norfolk, our commission scotched. They court-martialed Captain Gordon, Commodore Barron, the gunner, and the captain of Marines. Four were killed and over twenty wounded, including the commodore. Allen received his swab shortly thereafter, as I recall, and moved from the cockpit to the gunroom. I stayed in the midshipman’s cockpit with a half a handful of my mates. After the court-martial, Cap’n Decatur took command of Chesapeake – our original commander had naturally been relieved, court-martialed, as I mentioned –and we set out to enforce the embargo. Both Henry and I remained in the ship.” I stopped to take a breath and to allow my little audience to collect themselves from a mighty lurch Argus took. I thought Doctor Jackson might have paled a trifle, but said nothing. I pressed on.
“We stayed with Decatur through that commission and when he was given command of USS United States, then in ordinary at the Washington Navy Yard, Allen was selected as first lieutenant and I, having just received my commission as lieutenant, went along as fourth. That would have been November of 1809. Our job was to recommission the ship, recruit a crew, and make all ready for sea.” I paused as I collected my thoughts, recalling those long, frustrating days of dealing with the navy yard people and trying to find qualified seamen to sign on as crew. And Billy – Arbutus Halethorpe! What a strange character he was! I smiled in spite of myself.
“Did any of the other officers sail with our captain? Did Mister Watson?” Jackson queried.
“Did Mister Watson do what?” A bedraggled Lieutenant William Watson stepped into the room, shucking his drenched oiled coat and hat as he did so. His hair was plastered to his head and his face running with water; his blouse and shirt were also soaked through. Doctor Jackson looked up, startled at the interruption.
“I merely asked, sir, whether or not you had sailed with Captain Allen before joining Argus.” For some reason I could not fathom, Doctor Jackson sounded a bit defensive, even hostile.
“I have not. I served with Captain Rodgers in President. But, in point of fact, sir, I have been in Argus longer than our captain. We have, I should add, been acquainted for several years but have not, heretofore, served together.” Watson hung his dripping outerwear on a peg in the passageway, clapped onto a cup, and drained the carafe into it. He wiped his face with a none-too-dry sleeve and sat down to my immediate right.
“Coffee’s still warm? My word! I would not have expected that!” Watson exclaimed as he sipped. “What a lovely surprise.”
“That would be on account of my telling Bladen to light the stove to boil some water. Saw no harm in having a pot of coffee made as well.” Surgeon Inderwick spoke quietly, acknowledging his earlier gaffe.
“Well, thank you for that, then.” Watson smiled at the doctor. He turned his attention to the other “doctor,” Doctor Jackson. “How fares your principal, Doctor? Last I saw of him was not his best moment. Haven’t seen him since he came topside a while ago.”
“I believe he has taken again to his cot, Mister Watson. He seems less discomfited when lying down.” Jackson looked at Inderwick.
“Mister Inderwick, during my tenure as a professor of chemistry and natural philosophy at the University of Georgia, I studied and lectured on the benefits of many naturally occurring substances. One of them was zingiber officinale. Have you, by chance, heard of the healthful uses of it? You might recognize it as ginger root.” Jackson seemed to slip effortlessly into his rôle as a lecturing professor and looked inquiringly at the surgeon, a man clearly beneath his own status. “Perhaps, should you have studied its properties, you will recall it is known as a cure for ailments of the stomach when administered by mouth. I am not sure of its efficacy, having never personally tested it, but I suspect at this point, the Honorable Mister Crawford might be willing to try almost anything, should you happen to have some in your kit.”
Inderwick stared blankly at the civilian for a moment, as if mentally going through his inventory of supplies – or perhaps, trying to recall if he had been exposed to the benefits of ginger during his time at Columbia. After a few beats, he smiled and announced, “Yes, I believe I might indeed have some ginger root. And while I have never used it for such, I have heard of its salubrious benefits to sufferers of mal de mer. I shall fetch some for him forthwith.” He stood and wobbled out of the wardroom, clapping on to anything handy, as he tried to balance himself against the motion of the ship.
“I take it the Honorable Mister Crawford still suffers? He surely covered himself – and young Pottenger, I might add – with…glory, midway through my watch this morning. Hopefully, should this weather persist, he has learned that future regurgitations are better made to leeward!” Watson chuckled, obviously having enjoyed the discomfort of our civilian shipmate.
“I suspect that our young gentleman might have already mentioned that to him!” I laughed, recalling the image of Pottenger recoiling from the minister’s emissions.
We continued to chat amiably until Bladen came in, followed by Appene, the captain’s steward. Each carried a basket with cutlery, crockery, and glasses to set the table for our dinner, which would be served within the hour.
“My goodness!” exclaimed Jackson. “Where has the time gone? I had little idea, to be certain, it had gotten so late in the morning.” He rose just as Argus took a violent lurch to larboard, tossing the good doctor right on his stern end, bumping against both the table and his now-upset chair.
Watson laughed. But at the same time, moved quickly to offer a hand to the stricken civilian, hauling him to his feet, undamaged but certainly with wounded pride.
“In the navy, Doctor Jackson, men live by a credo: one hand for the ship and one hand for yourself. It generally prevents mishaps, which, on deck or aloft, can oftentimes prove more damaging than landing stern-first in the wardroom! I would suggest it might be prudent for you and your party to accept that wisdom for the remainder of our voyage. God alone knows when this weather will calm.” Watson brushed some spilled coffee off the doctor’s waistcoat and then repositioned the upset chair.
“Truly some fine advice, young man. I would indeed be foolish to ignore it. Thank you and I shall inform my colleagues of your counsel.”
“Gentlemen, may I suggest we retire to our cabins or – for any of you willing to brave the tempest – on deck so that Bladen and Appene can prepare for our dinner.” Following my own advice, I stood and took leave of the wardroom, as did the others.
I collected my still-wet coat and hat from my cabin, shrugged into them and involuntarily shivered as the soggy material touched my skin. Buttoning the coat, I stepped onto the ladder leading to the spardeck. About half way up, a purser’s glim sat on a small shelf to illuminate the steps with a dim, but helpful, glow. It was especially useful when the hatch was closed, as it was now due to the incessant rain and spray flying about the deck. As I attained the top of the ladder and was about to open the hatch above my head, it opened from the outside, allowing a small deluge to drop onto me from above, immediately followed by a pair of sea boots.
“Hey!” I cried out, startled and more than a bit annoyed. “Hold on there! Avast!”
The boots retreated back to the deck and I stepped out of the companionway to find standing before me – hands on hips and a glower on his face – the captain himself!
“Henry! Oh – I mean, Cap’n Allen. I’m sorry about my outburst; I just did not expect anyone to be
coming down just now.” Even though we were strong friends, I knew better than to call my captain by his Christian name anywhere but in the privacy of his cabin or ashore. I was clearly caught all aback!
“Quite understandable, Oliver. If I trod on your head, I apologize. I have had quite enough of this slop and thought I would see if Appene might have concocted something brilliant for dinner.” The captain smiled at me through the rain dripping from his hat brim and off his nose.
“I suspect that, with our honorable guest still suffering from his mal de mer, you might find it more pleasant to join us in the wardroom rather than…well…”
“Grand idea, Mister Baldwin. I have quite had a belly-fully of Mister Crawford’s suffering. That he is indisposed is indeed a pity, but I am quite convinced a bit of fresh air would do more to advance his well-being than wallowing in the misery of his cot.”
“Aye, Cap’n, my sentiments as well. But when last he appeared on deck, it was not one of his more dignified moments. I am sure you noticed. And young Pottenger was not exactly covered in – dignity!” I laughed at the memory of the earlier scene at the weather rail.
“Saw the whole episode. Fortunately, what with the rain and spray, neither could see my amusement. I am sorry for the Honorable Mister Crawford, but with a bit of luck – should he survive this little spell of boisterous weather – he will recover and perhaps even thrive on the clear salt air.” Allen started for the hatchway.
I agreed and watched as his back and then the top of his sodden hat disappeared down the scuttle. Closing the hatch, I set about that which had originally drawn me topside, namely, checking the watch, the rig, and the weather.
The ship was behaving nicely, rolling down as a large wave caught under her side, then returning upright as it passed. The bowsprit’s gyrations were less dramatic, though it still managed to plunge into the sea from time to time as its tip described circles in the blowing spume. The occasional contrary wave still smacked the weather bow, sending green water washing down the deck, but the frequency was surely lessening. The seas no longer left trails of windblown froth to leeward, and most had lost the white crests that revealed the ones about to break. I was gladdened to see the weather appeared to be moderating – as much for the comfort of our passengers as for our own ability to get to France and put them ashore. And then on to the war!
In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3) Page 3