Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  “Challenge those ships,” Dacres ordered, pointing.

  The man shook the cobwebs from his head, and the shutter started clicking. Five times he sent the message, “Identify yourself. Identify yourself. What is your flag? What is your flag?”

  There was no response. The ships came on slowly, running lights dim, but no answer to the challenge of the Guerriere.

  Dacres faced Laughlin. “Who are they?” he exclaimed. “John Rodgers and his American squadron have been active in these waters lately. Is it them? Have they laid an elaborate trap for us? We have no chance if those ships are frigates under command of John Rodgers.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir. But what if they are not Rodgers? Could they be the Belvidera and the rest of our own squadron?”

  Dacres shook is head. “Then why didn’t they answer my challenge?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I have no explanation.”

  Dacres took a deep breath and by force of will brought his thoughts under control. I cannot risk loss of this ship—until I know what I’m contending with out there I cannot commit to battle—two more hours until daylight—the Constitution will still be there—we wait—we stay with her and we wait.

  Dacres gave his orders, the helmsman obeyed, and the Guerriere changed her heading and held it until she was more than one mile from the Constitution, and then straightened to run parallel with her, moving northward with the other four unidentified ships following. The wind had died to a gentle breeze, scarcely disturbing the sails of the strange, scattered procession, moving almost imperceptibly north in the darkness before dawn.

  The morning star was fading, and the eastern sky was a deep purple against the black of the Atlantic when Hull, on the quarterdeck of the American frigate, again extended his telescope and searched for the five British ships. One by one he found them. Astern of his port side were the Belvidera and the Guerriere. Directly south, behind him in the far distance, came the Shannon, Aeolus, and Africa. He brought his telescope back to the Belvidera and Guerriere, making his best calculations of their speed compared to his, with the stand-or-fall question bright in his mind.

  Can they catch me?

  His eyes narrowed, and a look of defiance came across his face. Not if I can help it. Come on—all five of you—and we’ll see who wins this race. Come on. Come on.

  Three miles south and east of him, Captain Dacres stood on the quarterdeck of the Guerriere with his telescope to his eye, straining to identify the four ships that had loomed up in the night and refused to answer his signal lantern asking them to identify themselves. Suddenly his head jerked forward and he brought the telescope down, mouth gaping open, staring in disbelief. Those four ships are my own squadron! Not Rodgers! He exclaimed aloud, “Those fools! Those fools! Why didn’t they answer my challenge?”

  His face was flushed with hot anger when he turned to Laughlin, “Get the signal lantern! Ask those ships why they didn’t identify themselves three hours ago when I challenged!”

  Three minutes later, in the twilight before sunrise, the signal lantern blinked out the question. Within seconds the signal lantern on the Belvidera answered:

  “We were certain you knew who we were. Saw no need to answer.”

  There was outrage in Dacres’s voice as he barked orders to Laughlin. “Make a record of this entire incident, and do it today! Be certain it includes the fact I challenged in the night, and they did not answer. The result is that this morning that American ship ahead of us—the Constitution—is still afloat and it will be a close question if we can catch her.” He raised a fist in anger. “By the Almighty, there will be courts-martial over this, and I want a record that leaves no question as to who failed in their duty! Am I clear?”

  “You are, sir.”

  The first arc of the rising sun laid a sparkling golden path to the west across the shimmering waters beneath a cloudless blue sky, with the heat from the great burning ball following, while the odd procession worked its way north, the lone American ship straining for its life, followed by the five British gunboats intent on her destruction. On the quarterdeck of the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull stood transfixed, his eyes never leaving the five men-of-war whose sole objective was to take his ship, her cargo, and her guns, and imprison his crew.

  The sun was half risen when he felt the deck beneath his feet settle, and the frigate slow, then stop dead in the water. He peered over the stern to see water in which there was no movement, then turned to look east. The Atlantic had become a sheet of glass. There were no waves, no whitecaps in the water, no movement. The sails hung limp, useless, and their flag hung down unmoving. The Constitution would not answer her helm—she was adrift.

  They were becalmed.

  Hull set his teeth. If we’re becalmed, so are they. Now we find out who has the will and the seamanship to win this contest!

  He turned to Strand. “Load the longboats—all of them—with towing hawsers and get them into the water. Break the crew into squads and man the longboats to tow the ship!”

  “Aye, sir.”

  While Strand set the crew scrambling to throw tied coils of two- inch hawsers into the ten longboats and lower them on ropes and pulleys into the calm water with their crews, Hull stood on the quarterdeck with his telescope extended, studying the five British warships far behind. They, too, were lowering their longboats, but there was one crucial difference. Nearly all the longboats from all five British ships were taking a position ahead of the Shannon, and falling into orderly lines to tow her! Calmly, Hull made a count. There were twenty-two British longboats towing one frigate; he had ten to tow his own.

  The Shannon began to steadily gain.

  Hull turned to shout orders to Strand. “Get a twenty-four pounder from the main deck and the forecastlechaser. Move them to the stern. Cut away the railing to give them freedom of movement. Then get two more of the twenty-four pounder long guns from the main deck into my cabin and line them out through the windows to cover our stern! Get the gun crews ready.”

  Minutes passed while Strand and two dozen men jerked the four guns from their mounts and moved them to the stern of the ship, two on the main deck, two in the captain’s quarters, muzzles thrust out through the windows. Strand was sprinting back to the quarterdeck to report to Hull when the first stir of a breeze fluttered the sails, and it held. For more than ten minutes the Constitution gained speed moving north, and then the wind died and did not stir again.

  While the crew of the American frigate watched in tense silence, the Shannon, with the crews of the twenty-two longboats putting their backs into it, gained with each minute, steadily closing the gap.

  Hull turned to Strand. “Have all gun crews load. Get ready.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Strand turned to shout his orders when the first blossoms of white smoke spewed from the muzzles of the four cannon in the bow of the Shannon, and Hull held his breath. Too far—too far—she’s out of range!

  Five hundred yards short of the Constitution, four geysers of water leaped fifteen feet into the air, and a moment later the sound of the four cannon blasts rolled past the frigate. Through his telescope, Hull watched the gun crews on the British ship wheel the cannon back while four men rammed the soaking wet swabs down the barrels to kill all sparks before the next four men rammed the powder in to reload.

  Hull turned to Strand and Dunson, face set, a mix of fear and defiance in his eyes. “We have a choice. We can fight and risk the crew and the ship, or we can surrender and save the lives of our men.”

  The navigator broke in. “Sir, may I make a recommendation?”

  Hull looked into his face. Dunson was too young to have experienced battle at sea in the war for independence. He had come on board as a volunteer while Hull was refitting and resupplying in the Chesapeake River six weeks earlier. He had been quiet, watching everything, a constant unassuming presence, responding quickly and with amazing accuracy when asked for advice on any questions of navigation.

  “Yes, Mis
ter Dunson, what is it?”

  Dunson’s voice was steady, intense, controlled. “At this moment we are in waters that sound at not more than fourteen fathoms. Running north, that reduces to about twelve fathoms, then back to fourteen, and holds at that depth for nearly one hundred miles.”

  He stopped and Hull stared for a moment in puzzlement. “Go on.”

  Dunson pointed over the stern at the oncoming Shannon. “I think we can outrun the British by kedging, sir—at least stay far enough ahead that their cannon can’t reach us.”

  For an instant Hull did not move, and then he exclaimed, “Kedging! Of course!” He turned to Strand. “Get all the hawsers we can spare tied together in two continuous lines and get the main anchor and the reserve anchor into the nearest longboats!”

  Strand turned on his heel and was gone at a run, down onto the main deck, shouting orders, watching while startled seamen leaped to search for hawsers, and began tying them together, end to end, coiling them into two gigantic lines as they went. Then he grabbed his horn and ran to the bow of the ship to bellow to the two strings of longboats ahead, connected to the lines towing the ship, “Hello, the longboats! The nearest four! Return to the ship. Return to the ship!”

  The four longboats nearest the Constitution released themselves from the lines and turned about with the sweating seamen on board pulling strong on their oars, puzzlement showing clear on their faces at the peculiar order to return. Dunson was standing beside Hull, both watching, first the Shannon, then their own crews in the four longboats as they came alongside. The nearest crew chief cupped his hand to shout to Strand, “What’s the reason to call us back?”

  “Kedging,” Strand answered. “Come alongside. We’re going to lower the anchors into the first two longboats and a line into the other two. You’re going ahead as far as the line will allow to drop the anchor and we’ll pull the ship to it.”

  Instantly the crews of all four longboats nodded their heads and came alongside, two to receive the heavy anchors, the other two to receive the great coils of hawsers tied together to form two lines more than half a mile in length. Then all four boats turned, and the crews strained to race forward ahead of the frigate while Hull and Dunson stood on the quarterdeck judging speed and distance, first between them and the Shannon behind them, and then between them and their own longboats ahead of them. The single question had once again risen to the top: could they stay far enough ahead of the British squadron to avoid its cannon?

  They watched with held breath as the longboats reached the end of their tethers, and the first one dumped its anchor overboard. The crew on the Constitution waited one minute for the anchor to sink fourteen fathoms and hit the bottom of the sea, and then twelve men leaned into the four arms of the winch anchored to the deck and began reeling in the tether rope, leg muscles knotted as they drove with all their strength. The tether rope came singing tight and the frigate suddenly plowed ahead, gaining speed as the winch groaned and the drum turned to reel in the rope. When the first kedge was under the bow of the ship, the longboats assigned to it were there waiting to take the anchor and the line back out, while half a mile ahead, the two longboats assigned to the second kedge dropped the second anchor, and the crew on the winch aboard the ship began reeling in the second line. The rotation had begun: first one kedge, then the other, to maintain a continuous towing. The Constitution slowly began to widen the gap between it and the Shannon, despite the fact that twenty-two British longboats were straining to catch her.

  The sun was one hour above the eastern horizon when a whisper of breeze fluttered the sails, stopped, then rose again, and held. Hull trimmed his sails to catch all the wind he could, and watched while the British did the same. With her twenty-two longboats towing, and wind in her sails, the Shannon held pace with the Constitution, and then Hull thought he saw them gaining. For half a minute he stood with narrowed eyes, then turned to give his orders to the four gun crews at the stern of the ship, two on the main deck, two in his own quarters with the gun muzzles thrust out of the open windows.

  “Load!”

  Sweaty hands rolled the guns backwards, ladled the black gunpowder down the muzzles, then the straw, the cannonball, more straw, primed the touch-hole, and held the linstocks poised, ready, waiting for the order.

  “Fire!” Hull ordered, and the four guns bucked and roared. For several seconds the white cloud of gun smoke hung in the dead air and then began to thin and rise. Half the crew watched with held breath, knowing the distance was too great, hoping only that the British would understand the warning: if you come within gun range, we’ll fight!

  The four geysers of water leaped short of the Shannon, while Hull, Strand, and Dunson, and most of their crew, watched, scarcely breathing. The British ship began to fall back, but her companion, the Guerriere, changed course to the west. It was clear the British squadron meant to close the American ship in a box.

  For over two hours the cluster of ships moved north, longboats towing, kedging, while the seamen stood fast on the ropes overhead waiting to trim their sails to catch every wisp of wind possible. The sun was high when the first promise of a small, lasting breeze fluttered the flags and the ships all changed their sails to catch it. The moment the ships could respond to the helm, the captains called in their longboats. Hull, on the Constitution, ordered his held suspended on ropes above the water, to be available for instant use should the breeze fail again. All crews on all ships were at the rails, silent, intense, each calculating when, or if, the British could catch the American frigate. There was a mounting sense of a classic sea-chase on all six vessels as it continued, the British smelling blood, the Americans determined to elude them.

  Midmorning, the gun ports on the starboard side of the Guerriere belched their white smoke, and sixteen geyers erupted on the port side of the Constitution, four hundred yards short.

  Hull and Strand and Dunson watched with one common thought. She’s testing the range. They mean to force us to take a stand and fight.

  Abruptly Dunson turned to Hull. “Sir, I believe we could add a little speed if we wet the sails and lightened our load.”

  “Lighten the load how?”

  “Use some of our drinking water to wet the sails. Dump some of it overboard. I think we can make a friendly port within five days. Hold back just enough to keep the men alive and dump the rest. Over two thousand gallons. Eight tons. It will increase our speed by about two knots.”

  Hull looked at Strand, and Strand nodded. Hull turned back to Dunson. “You’re certain about your five-day estimate?”

  Dunson’s expression did not waver. “Certain. Boston. We can make Boston in five days.”

  Minutes later wooden buckets with rope handles were being passed up the rope ladders to seamen waiting to empty them onto the sails to capture every slight hint of wind. The crew watched in silent amazement while six of them manned the pump handles, and they watched their drinking water spray overboard to disappear in the salt sea. They wiped at their bearded mouths, and they looked at their captain, and then they understood.

  The Constitution picked up speed, and then something undefined, something powerful, crept into the entire four-hundred-fifty-man crew. They stood ready with the water buckets and sent them dripping up the chain of men to those standing on the ropes, leaned against the spars, waiting, and they kept every square inch of the sails wet. When the wind failed, they were lowering the longboats before Hull’s orders came loud, and they were into the boats and straining to kedge and tow with every pound and every ounce of energy they possessed. A light was in their eyes, and their jaws were set, determined. We can do it! We can beat the British! We can!

  On deck, Dunson did not ask permission. He jerked off his tunic and tossed it onto the nearest hatch cover, and took a place in a line, passing the dripping buckets upward. Within ten seconds Strand was there beside him, sweating, watching, shoulder to shoulder, officers with their seamen. In that moment, Hull knew. We’re going to win this race!

&
nbsp; It was nearing noon when Hull saw the Belvidera draw ahead of the Shannon and lower her anchor into a longboat, followed by a heap of hawsers into a second one. He lowered his telescope. Kedging. Towing and kedging. They may come within gun range.

  While he watched, both the Shannon and the Belvidera slowed and then held steady, just yards out of cannon range. Hull studied them for a time before a hint of a smile came. They’re afraid of our stern guns. They’re waiting for the others to box us in. And that isn’t going to happen.

  The day wore on under the heat of a late July sun, with the ships maintaining their interval as they moved north. On board the Belvidera, Captain Richard Byron watched the deck crew of the Constitution like a hawk, studying their every move as they used every device known to seafaring men to maintain speed and position on a windless sea of glass. He saw sweating, exhausted men lay down on the decks and sleep near their stations while the next crew took their place. Weary gun crews slept with their backs leaned against their cannon carriages when the next crew replaced them. The officers had stripped off their tunics with the gold bars on the shoulders and were right in among their men, sweating, rowing, working the bucket chain up on the ropes and spars. A grim smile flickered for a moment, and a look of admiration came into his eyes. Flawless. The officers mixed right down among the seamen—every man refusing to leave his station—sleeping on the decks—how does one defeat such men?

  The day wore on with seamen, both British and American, straining at the oars, rowing, kedging, passing buckets of water up into the sails with every whisper of breeze that might help. Down in the galley of the Constitution the cooks prepared food that could be carried up onto the main deck, and came from their kingdom down below, up into the blazing sun to serve it. The sun set. Twilight, then deep dusk, and finally full darkness came to change the race into a series of five sets of running lights pursuing a single set that doggedly refused to be caught. Dawn came, then sunrise, with the American frigate using every stitch of sail she had, still kedging, still with her longboats out towing, and the British behind, just out of gun range, still unable to gain the four hundred yards that could have forced a fight.