I knew I was not risking much by bringing up the subject; there was no captain in the navy more adamant about readiness and training than William Henry Allen. I had sailed with him in two ships, one ill-prepared and one properly trained and highly proficient at fighting.
USS Chesapeake, when she sailed from Norfolk, had experienced no training on the great guns, and, on top of that, the guns themselves had not been attended to and nor were they even a bit ready for use. But then, who might have expected a friendly warship to fire on us? And in our own waters! Having suffered the ignominy of that experience, Henry had made it his mission to ensure that his crews would be properly trained and his ships prepared upon leaving a friendly port. United States was exactly that, and, when we met HMS Macedonian far out in the Atlantic near Madeira the previous October, we handily defeated the cream of the Royal Navy – the American gun crews distinguishing themselves with their unerring accuracy and superior rate of fire. All of it – Henry Allen’s doing. Decatur commanded and Allen was first lieutenant. They made a fine pair, complementing each other’s skills and leadership style. I learned from both, and now I was in the same position as Henry had been in United States; I would not soon forget the benefit of sailing with those two officers!
“Excellent idea, Oliver. See to it. I am sure the men will be grateful for the distraction. And for God’s sake, keep our guests sufficiently distant. I could not bear to listen to Crawford carry on, were he or one of his company to get injured.” He rose, signaling the meal was over and I should get on with my duties.
Not surprisingly, I discovered several of my officers still lingering at the wardroom table, listening to Doctor Jackson and Mister Crawford expound on who-knew-what.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I should like a word with the ship’s officers. In fact, it would not hurt for the civilians to remain and listen.
“We will be conducting some training this morning – I think at a half after nine – on the great guns. Dumb show will be the order of the day for now, and, once we see how that goes, we will consider some live firing. We can ill afford the time to set out targets, but should we get to using actual powder and shot – even without the benefit of targets – it will give our people, especially the landsmen among them, an idea of what happens when a twenty-four-pound carronade fires. I expect we will exercise the twelve-pounders as well.” In addition to her eighteen carronades, Argus also carried two long guns, mounted as chase guns in the bow. Henry had purloined them from Macedonian while the latter was undergoing a refit in New York.
“Please see to your petty officers and warrants. I expect there will be abundant confusion when we pipe quarters, but I equally expect it to be sorted out quick as ever possible.”
All the officers rose as one and headed for the door, then their cabins, and ultimately the deck to seek out their senior petty officers and warrants and give them warning. Crawford, still seated at table, looked at me questioningly.
“Where would you have my party, Mister Baldwin? I should think we would be best served – as I am sure you would agree – were we to stay out of the way.” He smiled, to show me he was learning.
I held one finger aloft, indicating to him to wait a moment. I stepped into the passage and called for Mister Levy.
“Have Sargent Young muster his Marines forward for small arms drill – those who don’t have positions in gun crews, that is. They might as well get some benefit from this as well. Later, they can train some of our people in the use of muskets, pikes, and tomahawks.”
Levy actually saluted me, casually to be sure – but a sign that he too was learning the way of the navy. “Aye, Mister Baldwin. An excellent plan.”
I stepped back into the wardroom, interrupted Crawford and Jackson, and answered the earlier question.
“I think for this morning’s drill you might confine yourselves to the space aft of the quarterdeck. You will be out of the way but still be able to see what goes on. Will that answer for you?”
They both nodded but made no move to arise and leave the wardroom. I did, though.
I informed Watson of my plan as Uriah Levy was relieving him on the quarterdeck. Since Acting Lieutenant Levy had no assigned gun or sail-handling duties during quarters, it was appropriate he should manage the deck. During actual combat, I would assume those duties – along with the captain, of course – and Levy would assist the sailing master and oversee sail handling.
“Pass the word for Sergeant Young!” Levy was indeed on his toes.
The Marine contingent’s commander arrived on the quarterdeck within bare minutes, once again proving that there are no secrets on a small warship; word travels like the wind!
“Sergeant, we will be going to quarters directly. Your men will muster forward, draw ammunition from the magazine, and practice their small arms drills. And yes, I expect that you will be shooting. Have your drummer collect his drum and report to me here.” I acknowledged Young’s crisp salute and noticed that Captain Allen had made the scene on deck.
“Cap’n, I am about to call the ship to quarters. As we will not be firing the great guns, I do not feel it necessary to clear away below or sand the decks topside. Would you agree?”
“Absolutely. Let’s see to getting the men used to their positions, handling the carronades, and learning the routine. After that, as long as the weather holds, we can try firing.”
I signaled the drummer, who stood patiently just forward of the quarterdeck, to begin his beat. An experienced hand, he started the tattoo and stepped slowly forward along the deck, ensuring that all hands heard the signal, including those off watch below. As I knew it would, chaos ensued.
Men poured out of the hatches, looked about the deck, and were grabbed and pushed by the petty officers. Old hands – a very small minority of our crew – tried to help, but as they did not know the disposition of their shipmates at battle stations, they simply added to the confusion. My officers shouted orders, the warrants shouted orders, and the petty officers drew shouts of protest from the sailors they manhandled. As I might have mentioned, it was chaos!
The captain and I stood by the wheel – me, though I expected nothing less, nonetheless dismayed, and him smiling, clearly also not surprised. After Watson, Bosun McLeod, Gunner Conklin, and Sailing Master John Hudson and a few of the mids sorted out the uninitiated – directing them, pushing them, leading them – the ship quieted down and the gun captains set up their crews with jobs to manage the twenty-four-pounder carronades. Each gun required six men and a powder boy to load and fire, and now they all clustered about their guns listening to a petty officer explain their respective jobs.
At the masts, the bosun and the sailing master explained the orders the men would expect to hear before – or as – the ship went into battle. We would, in the real instance, strike the courses to provide better maneuverability, as well as preclude the possibility of the low hanging canvas being set alight by fires on deck or enemy fire. Today, due to the captain’s desire to fetch the coast of France quickly, we would not be reducing sail. In fact, with the favorable breezes we currently enjoyed, we had spread nearly all our canvas aloft and were boiling along at a great clip.
Thunderous sounds rumbled about the ship as the gun crews dragged their guns into and out of battery, hauled the tails of the pieces around, aimed each one at an imaginary target, and swabbed out barrels to douse any remaining embers from the woolen cartridge bags. Powder boys scuttled back and forth to the magazine hauling empty leather powder cans as though their lives depended on their speed. Topmen and landsmen alike scampered aloft on the fore and the main, shuffled out on the footropes, and waited for the bosun’s whistle signaling them to shorten or shift sails. On deck, others – landsmen all – clapped onto halyards, braces, and sheets anticipating the order to heave around or let go, in concert with the actions of the men aloft. I was impressed with the relatively short amount of time our men, mostly landsmen, required to turn the earlier chaos into a relatively synchronized effort – n
ot yet an orchestrated ballet, but soon, I told myself.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the captain leaving the quarterdeck and making his way forward. He stopped at one of the larboard carronades, silently observing the crew as they hauled on breeching tackles, side tackles, and pretended to sight the short-barreled weapon. The men seemed not overly concerned about learning precision or acting in concert. As they worked, following the petty officer’s instructions, they chattered, joked, and ribbed each other over everything, and I knew that, without a doubt, Henry would later have a word with Midshipman Snelson, who was overseeing the operation. Snelson might have been knowledgeable about long guns but carronades were quite beyond his ken, and he was reliant entirely on the gun captain’s abilities. Perhaps too much so.
As I watched, the gun captain pulled the lanyard on the firing lock and hollered “BOOM” at the top of his lungs, which set the crew, including the midshipman tacitly in charge of the gun, to laughing. Captain Allen did not share their mirth; he took the midshipman by the elbow and steered him away from the gun. The look of surprise on Snelson’s face and the scowl on Henry’s were quite at odds!
I could hear not a word of their conversation – can one call it a conversation when only one is talking while the other simply looks shaken and nods? – but the expression on both their faces betrayed the story as easily as if I could hear every word!
Allen released Snelson, who returned to his crew, each of whom had studiously avoided appearing to watch the exchange between their midshipman and the captain. The young man had a quiet word with his gun captain and then, in a loud voice, urged his men back to their stations. Then he stepped back, out of the way. I watched to see if his admonition would have the desired effect; it did. The crew, all six of them and especially the gun captain, were serious, precise, and most importantly, quiet, in the performance of their drill. I made a mental note to have a word with Jack Snelson about his performance.
Captain Allen, meanwhile, had continued forward and now, to my horror, was standing at the foremast, about to be confronted by none other than Arbutus Halethorpe – Billy, of USS United States fame.
“Mister Levy: you have the deck.” I shot over my shoulder as I hastened forward, hoping to head off a potential problem.
I should not have worried.
The captain clapped Billy on the shoulder, both of them smiling, and enjoying a brief chat like old friends, which, of course, they were. Well, if not exactly friends, at least shipmates. I had no idea what was said, as the quartering wind blew them away and out of my earshot, but Allen was still smiling when he nodded to the sailor and continued on his way forward. Billy, for his part, returned to the cluster of seamen at the fife rail, also smiling. His mates, for their part, showed their astonishment clearly when they realized that the tales Billy had told of his friendship with the captain and first lieutenant were not yarns, but real! Perhaps the peculiar fellow would gain a bit in their estimation. I hoped so, at any rate.
The drills continued, petty officers and warrants repeating commands and the crew going through the motions of managing the sails, hauling the cannons and carronades around, and handling powder and shot until they were weary, but with enough drilling, these actions would become second nature during the fury of actual battle. With the change of the watch, the bosun piped spirits up and then dinner; I saw the men in knots around their stations, obviously discussing their performance and perhaps even boasting of the supremacy of one gun crew over another. I anticipated we would actually fire the guns on the morrow. That’s when I expected all hell to break loose.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mid-Atlantic
28 June 1813
My dear Ann:
We have been underway now for just over a week. And while this letter will not find its way to you until such time as we make landfall in France and then gets put on a ship heading back across the sea, I must relate some of the happenings aboard that will likely amuse you.
You are, I suspect, saying to yourself as you read this, ‘a week?’ – thinking, I am sure, that when we sailed from New York we simply headed out to sea and were off. No, my dearest, we had to wait for the weather to improve and the wind to shift to a more favorable direction, and so we waited for a couple of days inside Sandy Hook – across from the Narrows at the mouth of New York Harbor.
And speaking of Sandy Hook, I should mention that we have shipped a new hand, an officer as it turns out. While we were waiting at anchor, a boat came alongside and a tall, rangy chap scampered up the boarding steps with the agility of a true seaman. It turns out he was a merchant captain, who thought the Navy might be a fine place to offer his talents, with him currently being without a command. He traveled to New York to find the ship but, as luck would have it, missed by hours our sailing. A fast horse carried him to New Jersey, and a hired boat brought him out to the ship. He’s an agreeable-looking fellow with dark hair and eyes and goes by the unusual name of Uriah Levy. Henry didn’t know quite what to do with him – the fellow obviously would not sail before the mast, but then, neither was he an officer. Henry solved the conundrum handily by naming Levy “supernumerary sailing master” (we already have a sailing master). He would take watches, easing our schedule to one in three as opposed to just Watson and me sharing the duties. Levy’s a Jew – the only one I have ever met in the service. Seems a bit hot tempered, but so far, he has gotten on well with all of us and is readily learning the ways of the Navy.
It has been the rare hour when you were not in my mind. I have reveled in the recollection of our time together when you came to New York with your father to see your brother prior to his departure for the Lakes. I don’t imagine your father was fooled for even an instant of your true motivation, but that troubles me not a whit! He and I seem to get along famously, and I suspect he might have figured out after our visit in Newport aboard Macedonian, that there was an excellent likelihood we – Captain Perry and I, that is – would be seeing more of one another. When we return from this commission, I plan on asking him for your hand as, by then, I should have acquired some significant prize money, assuming we are successful in the accomplishment of our assignment.
Those nights we shared at table, even with your brother present – who has become a fine friend, as I am sure you noticed – and your father, were endearing and memorable; they have sustained me, and I suspect will continue to, in our separation. Were it possible, I would spin the clock forward so that Argus would now be headed west, instead of east, and I would be growing excited about our imminent reunion instead of saddened by our indeterminate separation. I remember, as though it were yesterday, that December day in the year ult., as I watched the Newport shoreline grow closer. I can also recall the great uncertainty that was consuming me to distraction: would you be there to see us sail past Castle Rock. Maybe you hadn’t heard the news in time to get to Newport; maybe you weren’t as certain about your feelings as was I about my own – a host of maybes and worries. And then, the rapture in my breast when I spied you on the hill – picked you out of the throng that had gathered to bear witness to our bringing in the defeated Macedonian. When I saw you there, I became so in thrall that I dropped my glass over the side. Remember? That was when I knew – I knew that we were to be together and that you must have felt the same way!
But now we face yet another separation for who knows how long? Our orders are somewhat vague on the point. Their only mention of haste is in delivering the minister to France. After that, I can ill-afford to speculate on when we might return. I imagine it will depend on our successes over there, how much shipping we can disrupt, and when we can replenish our powder and shot, not to mention our water and provisions.
Speaking of powder and shot, Henry and I have been drilling the men hard with the great guns, in both dumb show and live firing. The gun crews are showing progress, and, should we cross tacks again with a British ship, they will acquit themselves honorably. Our sail handling is likewise improved, shortening down and shi
fting braces &c quickly without undue concerns.
We have espied only two British cruisers thus far; one we dodged in a convenient fog bank right off New Jersey, and the other we fooled with a nighttime ruse of lights and course changes, which allowed us to escape. We have been instructed to risk no confrontation that might delay us – or worse – in delivering the august passengers we carry to their appointed destination.
The weather is up again – and worsening, so we have halted the drills, as the deck has become dangerous, being washed as it is by almost continual seas. We have shortened our canvas to a few stays’ls, so as to maintain our course.
When he is not cascading from violent seasickness, the minister, a Mister Crawford, continues to press Henry to “deliver us from this dreadful experience!” He constantly pesters us about how much time is left before we sight France. I think the man has little idea of how large is the Atlantic Ocean! And Henry is obligated to share his cabin with the man. Appene, the captain’s steward, seems to be spending much of his time cleaning up the minister’s retching, which he does down below instead of over the rail. Most unpleasant, I am sure, for Henry! Inderwick – you must remember him, our surgeon, heavy-set chap with those shockingly blue eyes – has been feeding him ginger root, which seems to help, but I suspect he will run out rather sooner than later should this weather remain boisterous!
We did have one tragedy a day or so ago that I must relate, even though it’s a trifle gruesome. We were conducting live-fire drills with the great guns, including the two long twelve-pounders forward we use as chase guns. To be fair, the men had only practiced on those guns in dumb show. (That means they weren’t loaded or fired, just hauled into and out of battery, while the men pretended to load, fire, and swab out the bore – then do it again. It can quickly become tedious, as you might imagine.) The carronade crews, on the other hand, had actually fired their guns. And you will need to know that carronades, unlike long carriage guns, don’t have iron-bound wheels to roll back on when the gun recoils; the barrel simply slides up a wedge-shaped part of the carriage. One of the men from a carronade crew was filling in on the larboard bow chaser as a hauler on the side tackles. Apparently, no one, not even the gun captain, mentioned to the poor chap that he should not stand too close when the gun fired which he, in fact, did. The carriage hit him, knocking him down, and then rolled over the fellow’s leg. The whole assembly weighs about three thousand pounds and it took his leg right off, but not as clean as if the surgeon had done it. Of course, Inderwick was below on the orlop deck – the lowest in the ship – and so it was a while before he appeared after the midshipman sent for him. I should also mention that Midshipman Snelson, while quite capable aloft, seems to have a weak stomach – at least for such gore as was displayed in front of him! I am sure his mates will tease the poor lad unmercifully about it for some time to come.
In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3) Page 7