“I’d be inclined to agree with that assessment, Mister Weiss. Put the ship at quarters. We’ll be fighting this time, I suspect. And Mister Welch, perhaps you might take a moment and finish dressing!” Ballantyne smiled at his first lieutenant.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
USS Argus
“That’s a warship, Cap’n. I’d stake my life on it. She’s comin’ on hard with a press of canvas aloft. I’d wager they are thinkin’ to take us on.” Watson shared his considered opinion with Henry after the captain had responded to his summons from the quarterdeck.
“Well, then. We shall simply have to fight – and take her, Mister Watson. Bring Argus about and keep her head a point or two above them. We’ll try to gain the weather gauge. Have the men roused up and fed; I won’t have them fighting on empty bellies. And send your messenger to roust Mister Baldwin, if you please.”
“No need for that, sir. So…we’re not going to try to avoid them, Cap’n? The men are tired. We might be better advised to find a safe haven and wait for a day or two. Let the men regain their strength.”
“Mister Baldwin: I told you a few days ago, I recall, that I would fight any two-masted ship the Brits sent after us. We can and will prevail. Against a frigate, I would surely welcome your sage advice, but this vessel is clearly a brig of about our size. We can engage her and emerge victorious, I have no doubt. Further, they have most certainly already spotted us and recognized us for what we are. The commander there would not let us simply sail off and hide. Were our roles reversed, I would chase him to the ends of the seas, even were I in command of an inferior vessel…which, I would wager, he is!” He stopped, studying me for a reaction. I chose not to respond, merely doffing my hat in a formal salute and turning forward to see to the sail handling necessary to bring Argus about.
Well, you knew this day would eventually get here, Oliver. Your job is to fight the ship, keep the men alert and at their tasks, and help your friend – yes, your stubborn friend – to achieve his victory. What a feather in our caps it will be if – when – we are victorious! Let us not think about the alternative…
My little speech did little to assuage my anger at Henry, but, as his first lieutenant, I had no choice but to do my best to perform to the best of my ability and see that the whole crew did as well. My captain was dead set on fighting this fellow and so we would. To suggest otherwise any more strongly would be tantamount to mutiny. And I had to keep the crew from seeing my doubts.
The watch on deck had already gone aloft, and more men were streaming groggily up from the berth deck to see the ship through her tack and close with our enemy. Once we were set on a proper course, I hurried below to throw on a proper uniform, fetch my sword, and try to get some food in me before the Marine’s drum began the tattoo that would irrevocably set us on a course to triumph – or the bottom of the sea.
It occurred to me that the ship we had burned at dusk last evening might have been what gave us away. But that’s water under the keel now, and there’s naught to be done for it. There were would be ample time for recriminations after we saw what the next several hours might offer.
My friend…my captain – even if we were at odds about our immediate future – rapped on my door frame as I stood in my small clothes, midway in the process of changing. And simply stood without my cabin, his expression neutral. I felt obligated to speak.
“Sir? Give me a moment, if you please, to finish dressing and I shall attend you promptly.” I tried to keep my voice even. My emotions were beyond confusing and I scarcely knew what to do about it.
On one hand, he was my captain and I was bound to follow orders; on the other hand, he was my friend and I felt an obligation to help him recognize the potential for disaster we were now facing – something his unwavering focus on our enemy obscured. I was quite at a loss for how to proceed, relying instead on naval protocol and subjugating my personal feelings, seething though they were.
“When you are dressed, Oliver. My cabin, if you please.” He withdrew and stepped aft.
I heard the Marine stamp his foot and his musket butt on the deck; Henry had made it to his quarters. I could not tarry.
“Mister Baldwin to see you, sir.” The Marine called out after knocking on the door, even before I had arrived. I went in, on the captain’s command.
“Sir? You wished my presence?”
“Yes, Oliver. Sit, please.” The captain was sitting at his desk, already in what appeared to be his number two uniform, his sword hanging over a chair, ready to be strapped on when he took the deck.
I sat, stiffly, in the designated chair.
“I did not mean to suggest to you topside a few moments ago that your advice was unwelcome. If I sounded that way, I apologize. You have sailed with me now for some time. We have shared stories and experiences, most dealing with our reaction to our enemies, whether the corsairs of the Barbary Coast or the English. I have crossed tacks with the English perhaps a few more times and with more unpleasant outcomes than you have, but I know you share my intense dislike…no, hatred is more accurate…for them, even if not to the same degree.” He paused, collecting his thoughts.
“I do, indeed, sir. And I offered only the suggestion that, with the men as tired as they are and the ship short-handed, we might be better off to…” I didn’t get the opportunity to complete my sentence.
“I heard you and I fully understand, Oliver. But our commission tells me to ‘cruise against the commerce and light cruizers of the enemy, to capture or destroy in all cases.’ I cannot, in good conscience, run from an enemy cruizer, which I know we can best. And yes, I fully recognize that Argus is likely the better swimmer and that, with a fair breeze, we might manage to escape. But, my dear friend, you must know by now that I cannot possibly do that; it is simply not in my makeup. And it would seem that the secretary of the navy is of the same mind, writing, as I said, that we should ‘capture and destroy…in all cases.’
“I am going to need you in the coming hours more than ever, Oliver, and I hope I can count on you.” He smiled hopefully at me.
There was never a doubt in my mind as to his mindset; I knew as soon as we espied the enemy ship and identified her as a brig of war that he would fight. I had only hoped that he might temper his anger at the English with a smattering of good sense and wait to engage until it could be on our terms, not at a time when we might not prevail.
“Will that be all, Cap’n?” I stood, expecting to take my departure. “I must get on deck and see to the men. I am sure they are eager to fight.”
“I am sorry, Oliver. I had hoped you might see it my way – be more understanding of my motives. Yes, you are dismissed. I shall be topside directly.” He stuck out his hand, a gesture of friendship, I assumed. Or a parting of friendship, perhaps. I hoped not.
I hesitated for a moment, but, not willing to let this come between us, I took has hand in mine. Without another word, I turned and left his cabin, just as the Marine drummer began to beat his drum, marching fore and aft to put the men at quarters.
When I gained the weather deck, the men were mustering at their appointed stations. Powder boys were sprinting across the deck, each staggering under the weight of several leather canisters of bagged powder. The gunports clacked open; the carronades rumbled into battery, their short, ugly snouts protruding just beyond the bulwarks, each ready to issue forth with its deadly load of a twenty-four-pound ball. At close range, the smaller British ships would be unlikely to withstand their assault. But we had to get within close range first. Should that brig, boiling down on us, be armed with long guns – even twelve-pounders – we might not get close enough to do serious damage.
We’ll discover that soon enough, Oliver. Think positively!
Sailing Master Hudson had men at the foremast fife rail, clewing up the course, and others stationed at the pinrails, bringing in the last of the main stays’ls. The deck was a scene of organized chaos, all designed to bring our ship into a fighting stance, ready to take on all comers.
>
As long as they didn’t outgun us, sail faster, have a better-trained crew…Stop! You cannot think that way!
I tore my eyes away from the action on our deck to see what was acting on our adversary’s. She pressed on, having hardened up a bit in an effort to obviate our taking the windward gauge. And it seemed to be working. When the first shots were fired, I suspected the British brig – whomever she was – would have the advantage. We would counter with our superior sailing ability and gunnery. She had already clewed up her fore course but several stays’ls and even a main royal remained set.
I could see, even at a distance that her ports were open and the barrels of her battery run out. I guessed they were carronades, but fewer in number than ours. She was pierced for eight on a side rather than nine as in Argus. Peering through the glass, I noticed a pair of small ports aft, which might be for lighter guns. Time would tell. And soon; she came on with an unwavering determination, the bone in her teeth catching the light of the still-low sun. Had she not been hell-bent on killing us, it would have made a quite pretty picture.
“Mister Baldwin. The men are ready, sir. All stations manned, powder and shot in place. Mister Inderwick reports his surgery is set up in the orlop and he is also ready.” The master at arms doffed his hat in a formal salute as he made his report.
Aye, Inderwick is ready! And I expect he’ll have some customers! Just not too many, if you please, Sir. I shot a quick prayer aloft, hoping that He heard me and would favor us with his Grace.
Captain Allen appeared, resplendent in his number two uniform, sword swinging at his side in its hanger, boots well blackened and hat perched on his head at a confident angle.
“Muster the crew aft, if you please, Mister Baldwin. I will give them a few words of encouragement.”
“Sir, they are at their battle stations. I am sure they are overflowing with encouragement.” I stopped, seeing his expression. “Master at Arms. Muster the people aft, if you please, and quickly.”
The crew lined up, somewhat randomly but quickly nonetheless. Caps in their hands, cutlasses in some others, they stood at attention facing the quarterdeck. Only the Marine sharpshooters, posted to the fore and main tops with their muskets, remained on station, but from their perch they could hear the words their captain would utter.
“Gentlemen. This will be a great moment for us! We are facing a warship, not some merchant unwilling or unable to put up a fight. This is what you have all trained for, what all the dull dumb-show drills, the live firing, and sailing handling have been pointed at. I know you will achieve greatness today. You are Americans, fighting to maintain your freedoms. I know you will not let us down!” Allen’s voice carried easily to the bowsprit, heard by each man aloft and alow.
“Three cheers for Cap’n Allen! Huzza, huzza, huzza!” Someone cried out from amidships and was instantly answered by lusty shouts of “huzza” and other cries of enthusiastic support. Some men brandished rammers aloft, others cutlasses, while still others waved their neckcloths, which would be soon tied over their mouths to prevent their inhaling too much of the sulphur-laden smoke that would encircle the ship once the firing began. Without even realizing I had done it, I added my own voice to that of the men and other officers of Argus, as we sailed toward our adversary. It was time to fight.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
HMS Pelican
“He seems quite unperturbed about facing us, Tom. From what I gathered from the merchant captains, he is quite sure of himself when taking on an unarmed merchant. I suspect he might find Pelican a trifle more challenging! He appears to be hell-bent on his own destruction, does he not?” Ballantyne’s question to his first lieutenant was rhetorical, but Welch, whether out of concern or etiquette, responded anyway.
“Aye sir, he does that. And did you not say he was armed with twenty-four pounders? I fear they will be no match for our thirty-twos. Seems a shame to destroy that vessel; she’s a fine looking ship. Maybe we could take her as a prize?”
“Depends entirely on Captain Allen, Tom. He’ll decide his own fate, and that of his ship.
“Are you ready to put the ship at quarters? Men are fed and hammocks up?” Ballantyne knew full well the men’s hammocks were secure in their netting; he could see them. He was also reasonably sure the crew had wolfed down their breakfast. His concern with the mundane simply served to put his first lieutenant at ease. Even with Welch’s limited combat experience, once the shooting began Ballantyne was certain his subordinate – and the other officers – would suppress his nerves and perform as expected of an officer of the Royal Navy.
“Sir. They are luffing up – almost as if she is waiting for us to close! Blighter must be eager to fight!” Weiss informed Ballantyne, quite unnecessarily.
“And so we shall, Mister Weiss. And so we shall.”
The two ships closed, now almost within the range of a long gun, but with neither having any that would bear, Ballantyne determined to hold his fire and offer a broadside of carronades as soon as they could produce the desired effect. With Argus waiting for Pelican to close up, he was sure that the American captain was of the same mind.
“Quartermaster, you may put up our colors now, if you please. No point in leaving any uncertainty in their minds as to who is about to settle their hash.” The captain’s confidence had made him uncharacteristically ebullient.
As the British battle flag climbed to the peak of the main gaff, none aboard missed the same action aboard the enemy ship; the Stars and Stripes stood out stiffly in the increasing breeze from her own gaff, as well as another from the truck of her foremast. The American captain wanted no confusion as to whom he might be either.
Without warning, the Americans wore ship, sharply turning their bow to the west. It was a move intended to allow them to initiate the engagement with a raking fire and possibly, had it worked, end it quickly. Ballantyne recognized their strategy and countered by ordering his own ship to bear off, bringing the two vessels onto parallel courses off the wind, separated by less than two hundred yards. The English sailors heard a cheer raise up from the enemy ship, followed at once by their entire larboard broadside, loaded with grape shot.
Ballantyne hesitated not a moment. He ducked his head momentarily as the deadly iron balls whistled overhead and into his rigging, but was immediately standing tall. “We’ll return their cheer, men, with gusto – and their iron! Fire as you bear!”
His last command was drowned out by the British cheer, which barely preceded the deafening BOOM! of nine thirty-two-pounder carronades, fired in the prescribed ripple fire but so close together as to sound like one continuous roll of thunder.
The fight was on.
As fast as the Pelicans could load their carronades, they fired devastatingly accurate iron into the American’s hull and lower rigging. The Marines on both ships sought high-value targets – officers, easily distinguished by their uniforms, their gold braid sparkling in the sunlight – and fired as quickly as they could, steadying their muskets on the shrouds and railings surrounding the fighting tops. But it was the iron shot, the solid thirty-two-pound balls that flew across the water into the American brig that proved the most lethal.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
USS Argus
“Watson! Your guns are aimed too high! All our shot is going into their rig. Shoot for the hull and deck. And load ball in the forward guns! Lively, man!” My voice was drowned out by the roar of the carronades from both sides, but Bill Watson got the message and waved his hat in acknowledgment. He quickly returned his hand to his opposite arm, squeezing a handkerchief against his bicep in an effort to stanch the flow of blood running down his sleeve as he ran from gun to gun along our larboard side.
There seemed no limit to the fury of the fight, even though we had fired only two or three broadsides, the intensity was palpable. Lavender smoke wreathed both ships, obscuring any potential targets for our sharpshooters aloft. They had fallen silent as near as I could tell; no distinct pop, pop from the fighting tops. From deck le
vel, the Marines in the rig were fully hidden by the layer of smoke. Whenever a gun fired, a six-foot tongue of yellow-and-orange flame shot out through the smoke, giving our gunners a fleeting glimpse of where the opposing gun was positioned. Of course, that worked for the British gunners as well. It was difficult to keep track of either our own or the British firing, so intense were they both. The shots from Pelican were striking our hull – albeit well above the waterline – while ours sailed well clear of our enemy’s hull and into their sails. I watched in horror as a ragged hole appeared in their main royal, set at the very top of their mainmast! We were not going to defeat them that way! Not when their shot was telling. I shouted again to Bill Watson.
The air was choking, thick with the smell of sulphur. We had already suffered several men down, some wounded, others dead. Captain Allen was directing the action from the quarterdeck; I ran forward to see to lowering the aim of our guns and see how badly we were being hurt. It was unsettling at best, distressing at worst. One of the larboard battery, the side currently engaged, had been overturned, its carriage landing on some hapless seaman who was not quick enough to escape. I could not tell if he was dead; I could see only his legs. Another man had taken a ball directly into his midsection; like some broken and cast-off doll, his upper half was draped athwart the foremast pinrail, while his lower half, almost unrecognizable as such, lay in a bloody heap midway to the starboard bulwark. The spent ball rolled harmlessly in the scuppers, its horrific deed accomplished. Other men lay on the deck groaning, gore leaking from their wounds – mostly from splinters, I surmised.
“You men. Get to your feet. You can’t let a little scratch from a splinter slow you down. We must keep firing. Your mates need you, lads! You’re Americans! Get up and fight!” I tried my best to exhort the ones whose injuries seemed minor. Many of them simply looked at me, blank-eyed in pain.
Some of their shipmates were engaged in carrying the worst of the wounded below to Inderwick’s lair in the orlop. Others continued the fight at the guns: swabbing, loading, aiming and firing, as quickly as they might. I shot a glance across the one hundred yards of water separating us from the enemy; through the smoke I could see little evidence of our cannonading. Surely some of our shots must be telling!
In Hostile Waters: The Cruise of USS Argus (Oliver Baldwin Novel Book 3) Page 25