Prelude to Glory, Vol. 9

by Ron Carter

  The sun was three hours high when the shout came down from the crow’s nest of the Belvidera.

  “There! Nor’east! An American merchantman coming straight in!”

  Captain Richard Byron came to a startled standstill, and for long seconds peered through his telescope before his arm shot up to point.

  “There she is!” He turned to his first mate. “Quickly. Lower the Union Jack and raise an American flag! We must decoy that ship into us. Maybe the Constitution will come to her defense!”

  Within three minutes the American stars and stripes was dangling from the mainmast of the British Belvidera, the only British ship within sight of the American merchantman, and Captain Byron was watching, waiting to see if his deception would succeed.

  On board the Constitution, the sunburned seaman in the crow’s nest had called down to Captain Isaac Hull, “Nor’east! American. Merchantman.” Hull swung around to watch the oncoming, unarmed ship with the words running in his mind—Veer off—veer off—can’t you see the British flags?—veer off.

  Then Hull turned about and watched in stunned silence at the sight of the American flag going up the mainmast of the Belvidera. In one second, understanding hit him, and he gaped. Decoy! They’re trying to decoy that merchantman.

  He jerked around to bark orders to Strand, but he was too far down the deck among the gun crews. Then Hull saw Dunson already frantically undoing the figure-eight windings of the flag rope on the mainmast. Under Dunson’s arm was a British Union Jack flag, and while Hull watched, Dunson lowered the American flag and unsnapped it from the cable, then mounted the British flag and instantly started it up the mainmast as fast as his hands could work. The British Union Jack hit the top of the mainmast, and below, Hull, Dunson, Strand, and every man on deck froze as they peered at the oncoming American merchantman, waiting to see if she understood.

  The heavy freighter, loaded and riding low in the water, hesitated, then stopped. On board the Constitution the entire crew and all officers raised fists and a shout at the sight of the big vessel turning east out into the open waters of the Atlantic, well out of range of the British squadron, and they watched as she steadily grew smaller and disappeared.

  On board the Belvidera, Captain Byron slowly shook his head, ruefully grinning. They could not have performed better!

  The day wore on with the American crew sweating in the pounding heat of the sun, refusing to leave their duty posts, snatching sleep on deck, taking their rotation in the back-breaking work of rowing the longboats on the tow lines and the kedging lines, the officers with their tunics off, sweat dripping as they worked among their men. Sunset came with the ships still locked in place, the British no nearer nor farther than they had been at sunrise. The sun was reaching for the western horizon when the Constitution slowly began to distance the five British pursuers. By evening mess the gap had extended to nearly four miles, and Hull called for his navigator, John Dunson.

  “How many more miles do we have at fourteen fathoms?”

  “At least forty, sir.”

  Hull gestured to the heavens. “I feel a squall coming.”

  Dunson nodded. “I agree, sir. Within half an hour. If we’re careful, we can use a squall to gain distance.”

  “I agree.”

  At fifteen minutes before seven o’clock pm, the squall rolled in, and with it came gusting winds and rain in sheets that drenched everything on the top deck of the frigate. Grinning men with water running from their hair and beards and clothing waited, poised, until the last second before they pulled all the longboats and kedging boats in, and the blustering winds billowed the dripping sails of the Constitution, and she leaped ahead.

  Behind them, Captain Byron once again shook his head in admiration. Used every second they had and then caught the squall squarely—I don’t think we have a chance.

  It took minutes for the squall to reach the British, but in those minutes the American frigate had gained more than half a mile on them. The squall held until full darkness, then moved on to leave the ships soaked and dripping beneath countless stars in the black velvet overhead. The only difference was, the Constitution had gained an invaluable lead, and she was not going to relinquish it back to her pursuers. All night the Americans held their frantic pace of rowing and kedging, passing water buckets up into the rigging to get every inch they could out of each passing draft of breeze. By six o’clock, with the sun rising in the east, the British ships were but faint flecks far behind the Constitution, with the Belvidera leading, then the Shannon, Guerierre, Aeolus, and Africa following. Slowly, one by one, the British ships dropped from sight.

  On board the Belvidera, Captain Byron drew a deep breath and turned to his first mate. “Break off the chase. Let them go.”

  A wistful look crossed the man’s face. “Aye, sir.” He started to turn to carry out the order when Byron stopped him.

  “Commend our men. They’ve done well. Just tell them those Americans earned it. They were superb.”

  On board the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull drew his watch from his tunic pocket. It was fifteen minutes past eight am. He drew a deep breath and turned to Strand and Dunson. In the entire engagement, none of the three men had slept more than a total of eight hours. They were unshaven, sweated, bone-weary, rumpled, and grinning.

  “Gentlemen,” Hull said quietly, “I believe the British have abandoned the chase. Mister Strand, tell the men. We’ll hold this pace for one more hour and then we’ll fall back to regular routine. Tell them their performance was . . . remarkable. Every man will receive a commendation. And extra rations.”

  Strand bobbed his head. “Aye, sir.”

  Hull turned to Dunson. “We’re on short water rations. When will we make Boston?”

  “Tomorrow morning at about this time, sir, if the wind holds. Our water ration will get us there.”

  “Very good. Carry on.”

  Not one man in the crew of the Constitution could recall a feeling on board any ship in their experience to compare with that which had crept into them. They had met the best the British had to offer—five to one—and they had come together as one man in a chase that had no equal in history, and they had won! They had sweated and strained together, sleeping and eating at their posts on deck, with their officers stripping away their tunics and becoming one of them—every man had contributed to do the impossible. They stood a little taller and talked a little louder and laughed too much. No matter who else did or did not hear of it, they were the ones, and they would have that memory for the rest of their lives. They were the crew the British could not catch.

  They settled back into their duties, and in late dusk the call came from the crow’s nest, “East’nor’east. Sail.”

  On the quarterdeck, Hull raised his telescope, then lowered it. “Can’t tell her flag. I think we should find out if she’s British or American. Change course to northwest until we know if she’s an enemy.”

  Through the night they tracked with the ship. In the gray before sunrise they closed with her, close enough to identify her as an American merchantman. The Constitution corrected course to northeast toward the Massachusetts coast, with all canvas out.

  In the late afternoon they again sighted an unidentified ship, large, heavy, low in the water, but were unable to read her flag.

  Hull turned to Dunson. “Do we have enough water for one more day?”

  Dunson reflected for a moment. “We’ll be on short ration, but we can make it last one more day. We’re half a day out of Boston right now.”

  Hull considered. “We’ll have this one identified by midnight, then turn back due east.”

  It was shortly before past midnight when Hull gave orders to Strand. “Get the gun crews ready on the starboard side. We don’t have time to wait for morning. I’m going alongside that ship now to identify her. If she’s British, we’ll know shortly. If they fire, don’t wait for my order. Fire back.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  In full blackness, Hull brought his fr
igate alongside the larger ship and raised his horn.

  “Captain Isaac Hull. USS Constitution. Request permission to board for purposes of identification.”

  The answer came back with an unmistakable New England inflection. “We are the Cornelius. Commercial. Dunson & Weems, shipping out of Boston.”

  Hull turned to John Dunson. “You know anything about Dunson & Weems out of Boston?”

  John was grinning. “I know them. My father and Billy Weems own it. That’s Captain Bertram Walters. Can’t miss that voice.”

  Hull chuckled out loud, then turned back to the big merchantman. “Identification accepted. I extend a warning. We were pursued by a British squadron of five armed frigates. They abandoned pursuit yesterday, south of us. Watch.”

  “Understood. If you are the Constitution, do you have a navigator on board named John Dunson?”

  “We do.”

  “Greetings to John from all of us. And his father.”

  Laughter rolled out across the gap in the darkness between the two ships, from both sides. John ducked and shook his head in embarrassment, then joined in the ringing laughter while those nearest him clapped him on the back.

  The merchantman continued on her course, and Hull turned to his navigator.

  “Mister Dunson, take us home.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  John took his place beside the helmsman, spent a moment taking his bearing from the stars, and began giving his instructions—“East by northeast—due east—east by southeast—due east” guiding the frigate through the reefs and shoals through the night toward the coast of Massachusetts. At dawn they picked up the lighthouse marking the northernmost tip of Cape Cod and angled eastward, in a direct line for Boston harbor. It was shortly past noon when the Constitution tied up at the dock designated for United States gunboats on the Boston waterfront.

  Captain Isaac Hull gave orders that the crew could take shore leave in rotation, and gave John Dunson direct orders for a six-day leave, to report back for duty on August first.

  Hull turned to Strand. “Would you go ashore and find contractors to resupply us? Water, flour, salt pork, hardtack—the things we’ll need for our next cruise? I have some things to do on board until you return. We’ll go together tomorrow to make the purchases.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Strand left the ship, and Hull remained on the quarterdeck long enough to be certain all matters were under control before he went to his cabin. He stepped in and stopped short. He had forgotten the two long, heavy cannon set squarely in the center of his small quarters with their muzzles out the rear windows.

  I’ll get those moved later, he thought. He sat down at his tiny desk, which had been pushed to one side, and drew out the ship’s log. He opened to the page with the latest writing, and for a time sat still, pondering how to write the conclusion to the wildest sea chase he had ever known. Then he plucked up his quill and for a long time sat with the sounds of its scratching his only companion.

  On deck, with his seaman’s bag packed and on his shoulder, John Dunson thumped down the gangplank to the heavy, black planking of the dock, glanced up once at the familiar sight of countless seagulls and terns and grebes scolding overhead, and trotted east through the heat of the half-deserted waterfront to the familiar office with the sign DUNSON & WEEMS. He pushed through the door and dropped his heavy canvas bag on the countertop. Inside, Matthew and Billy raised their heads from their desks, and both instantly came to their feet to stride quickly to meet him.

  Matthew spoke first, relief and a question in his eyes. “You’re home! Too early! Are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  Billy reached to shake his hand. “We’ve missed you. Run into trouble?”

  John nodded. “A little. Is Laura all right? The baby?”

  Matthew smiled. “Both fine. The baby’s cutting more teeth.” He paused for a moment. “A little trouble? What happened?”

  “We met a British squadron off the New Jersey coast. Barnegat Bay. Five of them. All frigates, all armed. Two hundred eight cannon against our forty-four. About five to one, both in ships and firepower.”

  Instantly Matthew tensed.

  John continued. “Captain Hull—Isaac Hull—decided saving the ship and crew was more critical to the U.S. Navy than losing both, so we turned and made a run. Nine days. Most of it just out of gun range.” A grin spread on John’s face. “Got quite exciting. They quit. We won the race. We came on in to get water and resupply.”

  Matthew’s brow drew down in question. “You ran out of water?”

  “No. We dumped eight tons to lighten the load.”

  “The race was that close?”

  “It was close.” John chuckled. “We were towing and kedging and soaking down the sails most of the time to catch whatever wind came our way. They were doing the same. It turned out our crew was just a little more . . . inspired . . . than theirs. If they had caught us, we wouldn’t have had a chance.”

  Billy was smiling, shaking his head. “Inspired? Sounds more like frightened. Scared.”

  “Whatever it was, our crew beat theirs. It was pretty tense.”

  Matthew said. “We heard the Constitution was in the harbor. I’m sure the word got to both Laura and Mother. Take your bag and go on home. Stop at Mother’s on the way and let her know you’re all right.”

  John bobbed his head. “I’ll be back tomorrow to make a full report. Good to be home.”

  He shouldered his seaman’s bag and walked back out the door into the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun and turned east, toward home.

  In his quarters on board the Constitution, Captain Isaac Hull continued his careful work on the ship’s log, pausing to remember and record the detail. He came to the closing lines, wrote them slowly, then set the quill down and read them to himself.

  “. . . the unwavering obedience of the crew—the ingenuity and selflessness of the officers—the remarkable contribution of our navigator John Dunson—all require that every man aboard the ship receive a commendation which I shall gratefully write . . .”

  He closed the big ledger, rose, smiled at the incongruity of two cannon in his small quarters, tucked the ship’s log under his arm, and walked out on deck to the bos’n’s mate standing at the gangplank.

  “I will be gone about one hour. You are in command until my return.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  It took Captain Hull fifteen minutes to locate the Boston newspaper office. Inside he asked for and was introduced to the owner and chief editor. Behind the closed office door, he laid the ledger on the desk, amid a disorganized clutter of papers.

  “Sir,” Hull began, “I am Captain of the USS Constitution. My name is Isaac Hull. I have a ship’s log here. In it is what I believe to be the most remarkable story in written history of a sea chase. Would you be interested?”

  On the open waters of the Atlantic, far to the south, British captain Richard Byron sat at his desk, sweating in the July heat of his small quarters on the Belvidera. Before him was the ship’s log, with the ink still wet from his last entry. He laid down his quill and silently went over his last sentence.

  “The American crew performed to perfection. Their escape from the best we had to offer was earned. Their effort was in every detail, elegant.”

  He looked at the word elegant and for a time pondered. Then he closed the ledger and put it back into its drawer. He could find no word better suited to the need than the word elegant.

  The following day, in the late afternoon, the Boston newspaper published its front-page article of the feat of the Americans, quoting liberally from the log of the USS Constitution. Within seventy-two hours the story of the chase had swept every newspaper in every major city in the United States. The story became the talk of the nation. The Constitution and her crew became instant legends. The intrepid navigator—John Dunson—the one who saved the ship by suggesting kedging to his captain and recommending dumping eight tons of water to lighten the load and then runn
ing a British flag aloft to save an American merchantman, was the talk of Boston. The office of Dunson & Weems was flooded with mail and seamen and officers who came to shake his hand and congratulate him.

  On the sixth day after their arrival in Boston, John Dunson strode up the gangplank of the Constitution. First mate Strand stood at the top, on the deck of the ship, with a ship’s roster in his hand.

  “Reporting for duty,” John said.

  A big grin creased Strand’s large, homely face as he checked off the name, John Dunson, Navigator. “Nice seeing you again. We sail with the tide, about four o’clock in the morning. Think you can get us out of Boston Harbor?”

  Notes

  On July 17, 1812, at about 2:00 pm, Captain Isaac Hull, in command of the USS Constitution, a forty-four cannon American navy frigate, was four leagues, or about 12 miles, off the New Jersey coast, east of Barnegat Bay. Isaac Hull was the nephew of Army General Hull assigned to command Fort Detroit in the Michigan Territory. Isaac Hull had resupplied his ship in the Chesapeake River just weeks earlier. His vessel was designed by the most celebrated shipwright of his time, a New England Quaker named Joshua Humphreys. Many foreign governments, including England, had sought the services of Humphreys, who chose to share them with the United States. A Humphreys frigate was the best of its kind—larger, faster, and stronger than any other. On that day in July, Hull encountered five British frigates whose names and captains and gun count were as described herein. Two of the British captains were the finest in the British navy, and their frigates were excellent, but no match for the Humphreys frigates. Recognizing that he had no chance in a fight with five British frigates, whose combined firepower was about five times his own, Captain Hull ordered his ship to turn and outrun them. The British came in hot pursuit, and the race began, as described. Captain Hull used every device known to seamen in his retreat, including towing, kedging, dumping excess water to lighten his ship, and soaking the sails to catch all possible wind.