Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  Captain Barron turned his face upward and bellowed to his seaman in the crow’s nest, “Mister Yates, what flag?”

  Every man stared upward, waiting for the answer that could well determine their fate and that of the USS Chesapeake.

  Yates spread his feet to steady himself and raised his extended telescope to his eye. For ten seconds he remained silent, hunched forward, straining to define the flag popping in the wind at the top of the mainmast of the incoming ship.

  “Can’t tell yet, sir.”

  “Can you read her name?”

  “No, sir.”

  Barron licked dry lips. “Man-o’-war or merchantman?”

  “Too far. Can’t be certain.”

  “Keep a sharp eye. Call out when you know!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  They waited with tension building into a thing almost alive. Seamen came up from the second deck where the cannon were tied down behind closed gun ports, and from the third deck where their provisions and medicines and blankets were stored, along with a Holstein cow, half a dozen three-hundred-pound pigs, twenty chickens, and ten geese, for fresh meat and milk and eggs. The sailors came quietly and stood braced, straining to see the shape and build of the pursuing ship and the colors of her flag.

  The tiny speck had broken the skyline just as Yates’s voice blasted from the crow’s nest.

  “British! Union Jack. She’s British. And she’s a man-o’-war. Two decks of guns.”

  Every man on deck sucked in air, and Captain Barron shouted, “Are her gunports open? Can you count them?”

  “No, sir. They’re closed. Can’t count yet.”

  “Her course?”

  “Sou’ by sou’west, sir.”

  “Her canvas?”

  “All out. Full. Comin’ hard, sir.”

  “Her name?”

  “Can’t tell yet.”

  Barron spoke quietly to Budd. “On that course, and with that speed, she means to close with us.”

  Budd bobbed his head but said nothing, waiting.

  Barron stared downward as he muttered, “Do we outrun her, or stand?” The question was for himself, not his first officer. Barron raised his head and turned to the wheelman. “Steady as she goes.” He shouted to his crew, gathered at the stern of the frigate. “Back to your duty posts. Follow the orders of the day. You men assigned to the gun crews, get your budge barrels open and both the solid shot and the grape ready for loading, and be prepared to roll your cannon into firing position, but do not open your gun ports until you get the order.” He cupped his hand to his mouth to shout up to the crow’s nest. “Keep us informed.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Budd asked, “More canvas? The spankers? We can outrun her.”

  Barron shook his head and a look of defiance crept into his eyes. “We are in a state of peace with the British. We will not run, and we will not be intimidated.”

  Budd grunted and deep anger was in his voice. “A state of peace? You remember the incident last year? The British gunboat Leander? She followed an American merchantman into New York harbor and fired on her. Killed one American seaman. There were riots in the streets against the British. President Jefferson closed all American ports to the Leander. How many hundred of our merchantmen have the British stopped on the high seas and searched? How many embargoes against us at every port in the world? Some say we’re at war with England right now, only neither side has declared it.”

  “I’ve forgotten none of it, Mister Budd,” Barron growled, “but I repeat, we will not run, and we will not be intimidated. You see to it that our gun crews are ready.”

  A light came on in Budd’s gray eyes, and a faint smile appeared and passed. “Aye, sir.”

  The crew took their orders and returned to their duties of the day, scrubbing decks on hands and knees, checking hawsers, opening the budge barrels mounted by each of the thirty-eight cannon to feel the black gunpowder for moisture, setting the stacked pyramids of 24-pound cannonballs and the wooden buckets of grapeshot—one inch lead balls—next to the heavy, shining black barrels of the cannon mounted on their carriages with the heavy wooden wheels, loosening the locks on the gun ports to open them instantly on command. Their heads were constantly turning to peer northeast, silent, waiting, while the wind moved their tied-back hair and their beards.

  Every man flinched when the shout boomed down from the crow’s nest.

  “Her name is the Leopard. About forty-five or fifty guns and the gun crews are ready. Holding steady sou’ by sou’west and moving hard. She means to come alongside.”

  The man at the wheel glanced at Captain Barron, waiting for any change in his orders, and there was none. He held his course, nearly due south while twelve miles to the west the capes of Virginia were steadily slipping past as the small frigate plowed on. The shiny little frigate had been refitted through the winter months of 1806 into 1807 and returned to duty as a a United States Navy warship only days before Captain Barron and his crew of seasoned American sailors were assigned to take her to sea on her shake-down voyage. They had brought her out of the Chesapeake into the great ocean thirty-six hours earlier, and turned her south toward the Carolinas, silently watching for tell-tale moisture on the inner hull, aware of how sensitive the small vessel was to the wheel, how she felt as she rose and fell with the swells of the ocean, how her masts creaked in the nor’east wind coming in from behind. They watched through the night, and with the morning sun half risen, they knew. She was a tight ship, responsive, balanced, masts set solid in the keel, and she answered the wheel as though she were a thing alive. In the way of men of the sea they said little, but there were faint smiles, and an occasional snatch of a sea shanty as a sailor broke into discordant song. By midmorning the small craft had become theirs. No longer “it.” “She.”

  With each passing minute the oncoming British warship was closing. At one mile there was no mistaking the red, white, and blue cross of the Union Jack. At one thousand yards, the gun ports remained closed, but the count was clear. The Leopard carried fifty heavy cannon, divided evenly, port and starboard. The Chesapeake, smaller, carried thirty-eight guns, evenly divided, port and starboard sides. The American ship was out-gunned.

  With the British man-of-war a scant four hundred yards off the port stern, the crew of the Chesapeake were at their duty posts, but they were glancing to their own quarter-deck, silently asking Captain Barron his intentions. All too well they understood the sneering arrogance of the British and the price the American navy and American merchantmen were paying every day because President Thomas Jefferson refused to rupture the fragile peace that existed between the two countries. Terms of peace written on a parchment scroll meant very little to them when the brutal reality included search and seizure on the high seas by British warships with cannon-muzzles less than ten feet away, ready and anxious to blast a ship and crew into shreds.

  Barron understood the need of his crew to know what was going to happen in the next five minutes and called out, “Steady as she goes, lads. Steady as she goes. We’ll know soon enough.”

  At one hundred yards the larger ship held her course and Budd moved his feet, preparing for the collision if neither ship yielded. At fifty yards the American crew was staring across the narrowing neck of water that separated the two vessels into the expressionless faces of British seamen standing at their guns. At thirty yards the captain of the British ship corrected course to run parallel to the smaller American ship. He raised his horn and his voice came loud.

  “Ahoy the Chesapeake! I am Captain Salusbury Humphreys of the Royal Navy and commander of His Majesty’s, the Leopard. Furl your sails and drop anchor. I hold orders from Admiral Sir George C. Berkeley of the Royal Navy, directing me to search your vessel for deserters from His Majesty’s Navy.”

  Barron looked at Budd, dumbstruck, then raised his horn to shout back, “Admiral Berkeley ordered you to find this ship and send a boarding party?”

  “Orders issued June 1, 1807. I have them in my ha
nd. I will board your ship.”

  “To search for what?”

  “British deserters who have been impressed into service in your navy.”

  Budd blurted, “We haven’t got a British seaman in our entire crew! We’re all Americans.”

  Barron raised his horn. “We have no British seamen aboard. Permission to board is denied.”

  The railings between the two ships were less than thirty feet apart. Seamen on both ships were staring at each other, and each knew the other was preparing to open their gun ports and ram their cannon forward. Sailors on both sides were picking the place they would place their first shot.

  Humphreys’ answer came back from the larger vessel. “For the last time, pursuant to my orders, I demand you stand down and permit a boarding party to search the Chesapeake for British deserters. I will not repeat the demand again.”

  Barron bellowed back his defiant answer. “Permission to board is denied!”

  Instantly the gun ports on the British man-of-war yawed open and the muzzles of the big guns were driven forward. In that moment Budd screamed, “Open the gun ports and fire!” The American gun ports were half-opened when the deafening blast of twenty-five heavy British cannon thundered. The narrow strip of water separating the two ships was filled with billowing white smoke as the concussion wave rolled over the smaller ship. Solid shot smashed into the American gun ports, and grapeshot shattered railings and knocked American gun crews backwards, bloodied, stumbling, falling.

  Both Barron and Budd immediately understood that the British had come broadside to them with the British crew already prepared to deliver the deadly broadside on a silent signal, and that signal had been the second time Barron refused the British demand for boarding. The British captain had never given the vocal order to fire, and the trickery gave the British gun crews a two-second advantage that had all but destroyed the American guns before they could fire. There was not one American gun on the port side of the Chesapeake left in operation. Barron’s shouted orders were lost in the pandemonium of his bloodied crew trying to recover while British seamen prepared to cast grappling hooks and reload their guns, and then, unbelievably, they fired a second broadside into the smaller ship. Shattered timbers and railings flew, and more Americans staggered back as the British gunners loaded and fired a third broadside. The main deck of the Chesapeake was littered with smashed timbers and railings, and the lower sections of the rigging were shredded where grapeshot had come ripping. Hawsers dangled from the rigging, useless, blowing in the wind. Barron’s face was covered with blood from two splinters of wood that had embedded in his chin and forehead, and he was desperately wiping with his sleeve to clear the gore from his eyes.

  The British captain shouted orders, and the Leopard veered hard to starboard, and the two vessels slammed together. Twenty grappling hooks came arcing to catch on broken hatches or splintered wreckage, and within seconds the two moving ships were tied together. With muskets and swords in hand, British seamen leaped to the deck of the Chesapeake, shouting, driving the stunned American crew back into a circle where they held them at bayonet point amidst the jumbled litter and wounded, groaning men on the main deck of a crippled ship. The ship’s surgeon, short, stout, perspiring, was moving feverishly among the wounded with his black bag, jaw muscles tight, face set, as he surveyed the torn flesh and broken bones.

  With drawn sword the British captain came forward to face the bleeding Barron.

  “Sir, I am going to find any British sailors you have impressed on this vessel.”

  Barron was nearly beyond control in his outrage. “A demand to board a ship of the American navy on the high seas! The United States is neutral! We are at peace with England! How dare you? How dare you!”

  The British officer calmly raised a paper. “I have my orders.”

  “Does the name Chesapeake appear in those orders?”

  “It does.”

  “You were ordered to board this ship, specifically? By name?”

  “Specifically, by name. We watched her while she was being built and commissioned and launched. It was clear we had need to determine if the United States intended manning her with British sailors.”

  Blood was streaming from Barron’s face, but he paid no heed. His voice was high, near hysteria. “You’ve committed half a dozen acts in breach of the treaty between the United States and England! You’ve broken every rule of civilized nations. Three unprovoked point-blank broadsides without warning! Worse than pirates! Scum! There will be a reckoning, sir.”

  A look of irritation crossed the face of the British captain. “As you wish.” He turned to his first officer. “Search the ship.”

  “Aye, sir.” The first officer gave a hand signal, and ten men who had been picked hours earlier stepped forward. There was a stir among the American seamen circled by the bayonets, and instantly twenty British muskets came onto full cock. Captain Barron raised a hand, and his men settled. With the first officer leading, the ten British seamen with muskets disappeared below decks, while those remaining stood their ground with their muskets at the ready, silently facing the furious Americans while the ship’s surgeon continued his work among the wounded. The only sounds were of the wind in the rigging and the creaking of two ships tied together and the wrenching groans of men in pain.

  In less than ten minutes the British search party came up the narrow passage into the sunlight on the main deck, with the first officer prodding four seamen with the flat of his sword. His squad of ten herded the grim Americans before the British captain, and the first officer reported.

  “Sir, these men were among the gun crews on the second deck. I believe they are British seamen.”

  The British captain moved, stopping before each of them in turn while he studied their faces, their long hair, their beards, their uniforms. His forehead wrinkled in thought, his mouth puckered for a moment before he spoke.

  “They are British seamen. We will take them.”

  Budd spun to face Captain Barron, arm raised, pointing. “Sir, three of those men are native-born Americans. Connecticut and Massachusetts. I’ve shipped with them before!”

  Budd turned to face the British captain. “You know these men are not British. You aren’t here to search for missing seamen. You’re here to insult the United States Navy!” Budd was beyond any semblance of established international naval protocol toward officers of a foreign navy, and he didn’t care. His finger was thrust nearly into the face of the British captain, voice shrill, echoing out across the water. “You expect us to take this infamy from you just because you’re British? We beat you once, and by the Almighty, we’ll do it again if we have to! Mark my words, Captain. Carry them back to your Admiral Berkeley. Tell him. We beat him once. We’ll do it again if you drive us to it! Do you hear me?”

  Budd turned back to Barron. “On your orders, sir, we will retake our ship! Say the words.”

  For one brief second every American who was still on his feet turned to Captain Barron, and he saw the hot defiance in their eyes. British redcoats glanced at their captain, suddenly nervous, apprehensive. No matter the cost, the Americans were ready to reclaim their ship. Barron made his decision and spoke to Budd.

  “No. We will give no excuse. We will remain blameless. These men have committed an act of war, and I want the record to show that we gave no provocation. Not before they opened fire, and not after they boarded. They alone will bear the blame for what has happened here.” He paused for a moment before he faced the British captain squarely and concluded. “But I will say that under other circumstances, my orders would be otherwise! And I repeat, there will be a reckoning!”

  Every man on deck flinched at the shout from the British crow’s nest. “Sail ho! Due south. About two miles.”

  The British captain called, “How many?”

  “Only one so far.”

  “Course?”

  “Due north, sir. Straight at us. She’s seen us.”

  “What flag?”

  Th
ere was a pause as the sailor peered through his telescope. “Not yet certain but I think American.”

  “Man-o’-war or merchantman?”

  “Riding deep. Built broad. Heavy. Tacking into the wind, and she’s a bit slow, sir. I’d say merchantman, loaded, sir.”

  “Her name?”

  “Can’t make it out yet, sir.”

  “Keep us advised.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Barron thrust his face forward, eyes blazing. “You intend boarding that merchantman?”

  The British captain shook his head. “Our orders are limited to the Chesapeake. We have what we came for.” He turned to his first officer. “Take the four men back to the Leopard and get them below decks. Put them in chains if you have to. I’ll follow with the remainder of our men and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The four American sailors were forced onto the deck of the British gunship at bayonet point, glancing at Captain Barron and then the crew of the American ship, white-faced with rage. They disappeared below decks, and within minutes the first officer emerged back into the sunlight.

  “All secure here, sir.”

  Minutes later the last of the hawsers lashing the two ships were loosened, the grappling hooks released, and immediately a swath of foaming Atlantic sea-water widened between them. On command, the British man-of-war turned hard to port and began the slow, tricky procedure of tacking back and into the wind, making her way north from whence she had come.

  Captain Barron turned to Budd. “Start clearing away the wreckage and making repairs. Get a report damage immediately. Watch that incoming ship. Keep me advised on her whereabouts.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Barron called to the ship’s surgeon, “Doctor Samuels, I need a casualty count as soon as possible.”

  Samuels nodded, but remained silent as he continued working with a tourniquet and bandages to stop the flow of blood pulsing from the wrist of a pasty-faced seaman whose left hand was gone. He spoke without looking at Barron.

  “Sir, I’ll tend your wounds in a moment.”