Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Open your gunports,” Rodgers bellowed, and men jerked the clamps clear of the gunports and pulled them open, while others set their feet and bowed their backs to pull the hawsers that rolled the guns forward into firing position.

  “Steady as she goes,” Rodgers called, and Buford stood beside him, unaware that he was rhythmically pounding the railing with both clenched fists as he watched the two ships plowing through the black Atlantic waters on a collision course. At eight hundred yards the British ship was a clean silhouette against the last bright glow of a sun already set. At four hundred yards the Americans could see movement on the deck of the racing ship, fast coming up on the President’s starboard side. At two hundred yards they could clearly make out individuals on the deck.

  At one hundred yards Rodgers turned to the helmsman and ordered, “Turn due south, broadside.”

  The big gunboat swung to port and came alongside the smaller British ship at seventy yards, and Rodgers raised his horn to bellow, “I am Commodore John Rodgers of the United States Navy. Spill your sails. I am coming aboard.”

  There was no answer.

  “Spill your sails, or I will presume you to be adversarial, and I will fire!”

  Every man strained to hear the response, but the only sounds were the wind in the sails and rigging, and the curl being cut by the bow of both ships.

  Rodgers took a deep breath and turned to his gun crews on the starboard side. They were turned to face him, nearly holding their breath as they waited for the order.

  “Fire!”

  The linstocks dropped, the fuses caught, and twenty heavy cannon on the starboard side bucked and roared. The muzzle flashes lighted both ships, and the billowing white smoke filled the void between the two racing vessels as the sound rolled out across the black water. The heavy cannonballs tore into the smaller ship, splintering rails, smashing into the two masts, cutting hawsers, knocking men down, some never to rise again.

  “Reload!” shouted Rodgers and then turned his horn once more to the British ship.

  “Spill your sails or suffer another broadside!”

  Only three guns on the port side of the British ship had survived the near point-blank broadside, and they suddenly blasted an answer. Two cannonballs struck the President just below the second deck, harmless. The third cleared the main deck by ten feet and dropped into the sea beyond.

  “Fire!” Rodgers shouted, and the second broadside roared. In the momentary light of the muzzle flashes, John Dunson suddenly jerked forward, staring.

  “Reload!” Rodgers ordered, and efficient hands backed the guns from the gunports long enough to reload and roll them back into position.

  “Fire!” Rodgers called, and once again the heavy cannon thundered.

  John was at the rail, clutching it with both hands, head thrust forward, eyes wide as he concentrated on the image of the British ship in the light of the muzzle flashes. He saw holes smashed into her hull, and the shudder of the small ship at the impact of the third broadside, and watched both of her masts slowly topple, broken, shattered. Suddenly he straightened and turned to Rodgers, face white, voice high, intense.

  “Sir, I don’t think that ship is the Belvidera! She’s not big enough, and she doesn’t have enough guns!”

  Rodgers stared at him, dumbstruck. “Not the Belvidera? Who do you think she is?”

  “I think it’s the Little Belt! Seventy tons. Twenty guns, not thirty-six! The Little Belt has been seen in these waters in the past three weeks, and I think that’s her! I think we’re cutting a ship half our size to pieces! She had no chance from the beginning! We’re outside the unwritten law!”

  Rodgers voice was furious, filled with outrage. “Why didn’t she answer my challenge? Why? She knew better!”

  “Maybe she thought she could outrun us,” John exclaimed. “Maybe her captain is under orders not to allow us to board. Pride—arrogance—who knows?—but whatever the reason, the report that captain will make to England will crucify us for what we’ve done. We might have committed an international incident that will start a war!”

  Rodgers turned on his heel to face Buford. “Mister Buford?”

  He shook his head. “She’s smaller than I thought, sir. I think Mister Dunson is right. I think it is the Little Belt.”

  Rodgers stared at him. “Do we withdraw?”

  “I would challenge one more time. If she does not answer, I would withdraw, sir.”

  For several seconds Rodgers stood stock still, staring out across the narrow void between the two ships, then he cleared his throat and raised his horn.

  “Identify yourself. Identify yourself. Are you the Little Belt?”

  Every man in the crew of the President held his breath, waiting.

  There was no answer.

  “Do you need help? If you need help, spill your sails. We have a ship’s surgeon and medical supplies. If you need help, spill your sails. Answer. Answer!”

  Again they waited, and there were only the sounds of the wind and the sea.

  For a full thirty seconds Rodgers paced, slamming one fist into the palm of his other hand over and over again, grinding his teeth, face livid red. He stopped and barked orders to the helmsman.

  “Hard to port. Due east. Withdraw. Withdraw.”

  Then all the air went out of him and his shoulders slumped. He turned to Buford. “Order the gun crews to stand down. Close the gun ports. Make for open water.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The big ship made the turn with Rodgers, Buford, and John all standing at the railing at the stern of the ship, staring silently through the darkness at the disappearing ship. There were a few fires on her deck, and lanterns began to wink on. In their minds the three men were seeing the carnage and the destruction they had inflicted on a once-proud ship and crew.

  How many dead? Crippled? Is she seaworthy or mortally wounded? Will she get home to England?

  On board the wreckage of the Little Belt, her captain wiped at the blood running from the bone-deep cut on his forehead into his eyes, trying to focus on the shattered pieces of his ship, and count his dead and wounded.

  Nine dead. Twenty-three wounded. Both masts down. Hulled nine times. Taking on water. Fires. Low on provisions.

  He straightened, and a light came into his eyes. We’ll survive. We’ll survive, and I will make my report to London. There is not one man in the Admiralty Department who will let this pass unpunished. They will pay, and the price will be more than they can bear. Much more.

  Notes

  On May 6, 1811, Paul Hamilton, secretary of the United States Navy, issued orders to the USS President to active duty patrolling American waters off the New Jersey coast at or near Cape Henry. Commodore John Rodgers was to be in command of the big American man-of-war that carried forty-four cannon. His orders were to clear the waters of marauding British ships. On May 16, he sighted and took chase of a British ship that eluded him all day, into the early evening. In fading light he caught the British ship and believed it to be the Belvidera, a British gunboat carrying thirty-six cannon. In fading light he delivered three devastating broadsides, only to realize it was not the Belvidera, but a much smaller ship named Little Belt, only seventy tons and carrying only twenty cannon. Realizing his mistake he withdrew, but his attack had killed nine British sailors and severely damaged the much smaller ship. When the incident was reported to the British admiralty in London, the outrage was overwhelming. The incident later became one of the direct causes of the War of 1812.

  See Wills, James Madison, p. 112; Hickey, The War of 1812, p. 24; Horsman, The Causes of the War of 1812, p. 220; Stagg, pp. 45, 70, 144; Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, p. 42; Roosevelt, The Naval War of 1812, pp. 80, 83, 99, 144, 150, 154, 157, 244.

  For a description of loading and firing a cannon as described herein, see Peterson, Round Shot and Rammers, p. 30.

  Southwest Indiana Territory

  Late October 1811

  CHAPTER IX

  * * *

  An o
vernight heavy frost and a brilliant sunrise turned the forest on the Wabash River in southwestern Indiana Territory into a world of sparkling prisms that caught the golden rays and changed them to yellows and reds and blues, and mixed them with the unending colors of the crisp leaves of summer to make a forest wonderland.

  In a small clearing four miles south of the village of Vincennes, and one quarter mile east of the river, Eli Stroud finished his simple breakfast of oatmeal mush and cider, rinsed the wooden bowl and mug and spoon, set them on the shelf to dry, and shrugged into his sleeveless deerskin vest. He walked from the small cabin out into the yard and flexed both shoulders against the twinges and rubbed at his elbows.

  Getting old—cold raises the rheumatism—got to cut winter kindling—that’ll raise some warmth.

  His moccasins left tracks in the frost as he walked to the smokehouse just west of the cabin, on the shady side, head turning as he marveled at the kaleidoscope of colors on all sides.

  No man can ever match that—no paint to compare with Nature’s.

  He opened the door to the smokehouse and stepped back to let the build-up of smoke and heat escape before he stepped close. He reached to touch the four venison hind quarters and four front quarters carefully hung above the small, smoldering hardwood fire in the pit below.

  Done. Ready. Ned should be here today.

  He partially closed the draft, then closed the door and walked back through the yard to the east side of the cabin, bright in the sunlight, to the wood yard. He flexed his hands to get past the stiffness, picked up a large, double-bitted ax, set the first rung of pine on the chopping block, and swung. By nine o’clock he had his vest laid aside and was swinging in a rhythm, and the stacks of split kindling were growing at random on the ground all around the block. At midmorning he stopped to wipe the sweat from his face and go into the cabin to drink water from the wooden dipper in the water bucket. With the sun overhead he drove the ax bit into the chopping block and began to gather the kindling to stack it against the east wall of the house. An hour later he stood back and made his estimate.

  Close to two cords. Three more before dark. Ten more before the first big freeze.

  He walked back into the cool dimness of the cabin, added wood to the small fire in the fireplace, and swung the arm out to place the pot directly above the flames. Then he went to the root cellar behind the house for cider and the remains of an opossum stew he had cooked two days earlier, and returned to set the cider on the table and the stew in the pot. He was reaching for a wooden plate when he felt the vibrations through the boards of the floor. He set the plate on the table and walked back out into the sunshine with one hand raised to shade his eyes while he studied the crooked path to the river. There was movement, and then the team of horses pulling the small, light-freight wagon took shape through the trees.

  Eli raised a hand to wave, and the deep voice came booming, “Hallo, the house! Is that you, Eli?”

  “Ned, come on in,” he called.

  “Don’t shoot me for an Indian,” came the answer.

  “Then what shall I shoot you for?” Eli was grinning.

  A laugh echoed in the forest. “You shoot me, and you’ll pay the devil trying to deliver all I got in this wagon.”

  The wagon rolled on into the yard and Ned Preece, short, paunchy, round, bearded face, noisy, dropped to the ground grinning.

  “Well,” he exclaimed, “I see the bears didn’t get you.”

  “None tried,” Eli answered. “They’re all gone. Things are getting too civilized around here.”

  Ned sobered. “Yeah, it worries me. A day like this! What’s a day like this going to be worth when all the trees is gone and all we got is towns and roads and people?”

  Eli shook his head. “It’s a worry.” He pointed. “Got some things for me in there?”

  “Sure do. Here. Give me a hand.”

  Together they untied the ropes and threw back the heavy canvas, and Ned dropped the tailgate.

  “You want this pork in the root cellar?” Ned asked.

  Eli nodded. “Yes. I’ll brine it later.” Each man seized a wooden box covered with canvas and walked around the cabin to the small root cellar to put two fresh pork legs, two bellies, two loins, and two shoulders on the shelves. They walked back to the wagon and pushed the empty boxes into the wagon bed, and Ned pointed to a thirty-pound rung of cheese and two smaller crates of dried, shelled corn.

  “Root cellar?”

  “Yes. All of it.”

  They finished unloading, and Eli pointed with his chin. “The venison’s in the smoke house.”

  Twenty minutes later the smoked venison was laid out in the wagon box, still uncovered, still hot.

  “Come on in,” Eli said, “and we’ll have some stew while it cools.”

  Ned hitched at his pants and a grin divided his beard, with his square, gapped teeth showing. “Thought you’d never ask. Don’t mind if I do.” He followed Eli through the low door into the warmth of the small cabin and waited a moment while his eyes adjusted to the loss of bright sunlight before he sat down at the table. He thumped his foot on the floor.

  “Surprises me every time. Not many out here have wood floors.”

  Eli used a pad to lift the stew pot from the arm above the fire and set it smoking on the table beside the cider and a half loaf of dark bread. Both men bowed their heads while Eli returned thanks, and Ned reached for the stew. He heaped his plate with the steaming chunks of meat and potatoes and carrots, and tore a piece of bread from the half-loaf. He blew on the first spoon-load to cool it, then gingerly took it in his mouth, sucking air against the heat.

  “Now, that’s edible!” he exclaimed, stuffing a chunk of bread in his mouth.

  “You can thank the ’possum,” Eli replied.

  For a time they ate in thoughtful silence. Each broke bread to wipe their plates clean, then reached for their wooden cups of cider. Ned had his elbows on the table, his cider cup held between the palms of his hands.

  “Heard about what’s happening up north? Harrison? The Prophet?”

  Eli reflected for a moment. “I know Tecumseh’s down south trying to get the tribes down there to come north. I know Governor Harrison’s been drilling the militia all summer, right here in Vincennes. I know there was shooting up north between some of The Prophet’s warriors and the army there where they’re building Fort Harrison. That was three weeks ago. Governor Harrison’s under orders from Eustis in the War Department in Washington, D.C., to avoid confrontations with the Indians unless there’s no other way. I heard the territorial bank account was down to three dollars, and Harrison asked for help from the federal government, and he got it. I put all that together, and I get an uneasy feeling.”

  Ned nodded. “Did you know Harrison asked Scott—Governor Scott in Kentucky—for help? I’m told Scott sent one hundred riflemen. With Harrison’s militia and four hundred more army regulars from Washington, D.C., Harrison can field near twelve hundred men. He’s got them marching north from Vincennes right now.”

  Ned sat back and watched Eli’s mind reach some conclusions.

  Eli said, “I knew that Harrison left Vincennes marching north, but I didn’t know he had a force of twelve hundred. It didn’t make sense until now. If he’s got a force of twelve hundred armed men, he’s marching toward Prophetstown. He intends doing something with Tenskwatawa. The Prophet. Tenskwatawa is not Tecumseh. Tecumseh could handle Harrison and keep the peace. I doubt Tenskwatawa can handle Harrison, and it’s certain he won’t care too much about keeping the peace. Are we looking for real trouble up there?”

  Ned nodded vigorously. “That’s how I read it. It’s been building for six, eight years. I think Harrison knows Tecumseh’s down south, and I think he knows Tenskwatawa can be sucked into a war over almost nothing. I think Harrison intends to give him an excuse, and when Tenskwatawa makes the wrong move, I think Harrison intends putting him away. Him and all his people. I think Harrison figures that will remove the last obs
tacle, and he’ll have a free hand to survey the entire Wabash River Valley for settlement. I think that’s what’s going on up there.” He stopped for a moment, then raised a hand. “Oh. One more thing. It looks like Tenskwatawa read this whole thing the same way and about a month ago sent a message down to Harrison in Vincennes, declaring his peaceful intentions, but I think he did it to make sure everyone knows that if trouble starts, it wasn’t his fault. I know Harrison ignored it. He’s marching up there anyway. He wants the Indian land and power.” Again he stopped for a moment, then shook his head. “Land and power. How many wars has that caused? How many lives lost?”

  Eli studied his mug of cider for a time. “Too many. Harrison’s going to put the spark in the tinder box, and something bad’s going to happen.”

  Ned’s eyes narrowed. “When it explodes, I don’t know where the end of it will be. This whole territory could blow up.”

  “Maybe someone ought to go up there and take a look.”

  Ned drew a huge breath and exhaled it slowly. “I’ll keep an eye on your place while you’re gone. Thanks for the victuals. They was good. Let’s go cover that venison, and I got to go. More deliveries before nightfall. Won’t get back to Vincennes before midnight. That venison’ll taste good to Alice and the kids when the snow flies.”

  “I owe you any money?” Eli asked.

  “None. The trade was even. But you got to get civilized. Get some pigs and chickens and a milk cow. Plant a garden. If the bears are gone, it won’t be long until the deer and ’possums are gone too, and then where’ll you be? Starving. That’s where.” He bobbed his head emphatically. “Let’s finish the wagon.”

  With the venison covered by the canvas tarp and tied down, and the tailgate up and locked, Ned heaved himself up the step into the driver’s seat and threaded the long leather ribbons between his fingers. He turned serious eyes to Eli and spoke with intensity.