They obeyed, slipping them into their scabbards right away.
“Now”—Barron crossed his arms—“the commodore and I had a mind to transfer you here to the flagship, but that is impossible now. I am going to have to do something to punish you, so the other officers will feel that they have succeeded in landing you in trouble. I know they goaded you into fighting.”
“What will happen to them?” asked Sam.
“That does not concern you.” Barron chewed on his decision for several seconds. “Gentlemen, you will spend until four bells in the next watch, in the foretop, together. I advise you to discuss your differences, and if you cannot resolve them, I expect only one of you to come down.”
“Yes, sir,” they said again together.
“But if you both come down, I expect never to hear of such an altercation again. If I do, it will be very bad for you. Now, up the ratlines with you. When you come down, I will send you back over to the Enterprise in our cutter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now,” said Dale, “nothing in what Captain Barron has told you will forbid you from stopping by the galley on your way forward. Take some food and water up with you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
4.
LIEUTENANT PUTNAM
October 1801
After their gory victory over the Tripoli, the squadron’s activities in the Mediterranean descended into a litany of boredom. At Gibraltar, the Philadelphia kept her watch over the grand admiral and the Meshuda for months. The crew of the small brig eventually mutinied, owing to the British refusal to sell them stores, causing the crew to storm ashore and ransack a bakery. It was not known until well after the fact that the officers of the Meshuda gave up their ship, slipped off, and made their ways disguised as Moorish traders back to Tripoli. Still, the Tripolitan flagship could not be seized because she was in a neutral port.
On September 3, Dale relaxed his blockade of Tripoli. Out of provisions, he made for Gibraltar, sending the Enterprise to find the Essex and rendezvous with him there. Bliven was standing the second dog watch when the British pilot came aboard and guided them into the harbor; there both the President and the Philadelphia swung quietly at their anchors.
Immediately after breakfast the next morning, the President’s cutter came alongside the schooner and a warrant officer sought out Lieutenant Sterett, who led him to Sam and Bliven. “The commodore presents his compliments,” the warrant officer said to them, “and requires you aboard the flagship at once.”
Bliven tried to hide his surprise. “Very well. Give us one moment to polish up, and we’ll be right along.”
They closed the door to their tiny berth and avoided each other as best they could in sharing their small mirror, combing their hair, and straightening their uniforms. “What do you suppose he wants?” asked Sam. “Do you think he’s still mad at us?”
Bliven shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”
The cutter eased its way up to the President, and they climbed the boarding ladder. They saluted a lieutenant who approached them. “This way, if you please.” They descended the waist ladders to the gun deck, where Sam and Bliven removed their hats so as not to knock them on the low beams, and then were led after to the commodore’s sea cabin, at which the lieutenant knocked and entered.
He returned in a few seconds. “Gentlemen, if you please,” and held the door open for them. There behind a table stood Dale in the middle, and the two Captains Barron, one on either side. Papers, pens, and inkwells lay before them.
Bliven and Sam saluted, which the captains returned and seated themselves. “Gentlemen,” said Barron, “it is my duty to inform you that you have passed your period as probationary midshipmen, and you are here by these presents”—he scooted a large and official-looking document at each across the table—“commissioned as midshipmen in the United States Navy, with the rank to run from the date of your original enlistment. Congratulations.”
Bliven wondered if his relief was visible. At first sight of the captains and the arrangement of the room he thought they would be court-martialed. “Thank you, sir,” they said, almost together.
“Be seated, please.” Dale indicated two chairs opposite the table from himself and the Barrons, who gathered their sheaves of paper closer to scrutiny and took pens in hand. “Now, Mr. Putnam, tell me, how would you determine the southing of the moon?”
“Sir?”
“The southing of the moon, when she crosses the meridian.”
“Truly, sir? The first thing I would do is search to see if there is a table in the navigational manual.”
The captains smiled wryly. “Mr. Putnam,” Dale continued, “you are Captain Bligh. You have been cast adrift in your longboat with aught but pencil and paper. Now, how would you determine the southing of the moon?”
“At what time of day, sir?”
Dale pursed his lips with satisfaction. “It is in the afternoon, Mr. Putnam.”
“Well, sir, first I would need to know age of the moon, how many days since she was new. One should always know this; today is seven. This number I would multiply by forty-eight, and then divide by sixty. The quotient and the remainder will tell me the hours and minutes when she is on the meridian past noon.”
“Mr. Bandy, suppose now you are Captain Bligh, and it is the next morning. How would you calculate it?”
“Sir, I would multiply the age of the moon by four and divide by five for the hours, and multiply the remainder by twelve for the minutes in the morning.”
“Very good, Mr. Bandy, and why is it important to determine the southing of the moon?”
“Because this is how we determine when will be high tide.”
“Very well.” He turned to Samuel Barron. “Captain?”
“Mr. Putnam,” said Barron, “suppose a distance to zenith of ten degrees north, and a declination of twenty degrees. What latitude are you in?”
Bliven thought for a moment. “Ten degrees north, sir.”
“Mr. Bandy, suppose the sun is in your zenith. Then what latitude?”
“The equator, sir.”
“Very well.”
Dale turned to James Barron. “Captain?”
Barron folded his hands before him. “Mr. Putnam, suppose you are hauling close to the wind, the weather is moderate, all your sails are set. How do you tack your vessel?”
Bliven’s blood flushed cold. These were questions of the lieutenant’s examination. He closed his eyes and swallowed, imagining that circumstance. “Sir, I would stretch along the lee bow lines, weather sheets, and lee tacks, then put the helm alee, let go the foresheet, lee foretop sail, brace and foretop bow line, jib, and staysail sheets. When the foretop sail touches, brace to and help her; when aback, brace up and help her. When the wind is out of the aftersails, I would raise tacks and sheets; shift the staysail tacks, and haul over the staysail sheets. When the wind is about half a point on the bow, I would haul the mainsail if I am sure of coming about. Now, if she has sternway, I would shift the helm and top the spritsail yard; haul on board the main tack and aft the main sheet. When the aftersails are full I would brace up the main yard; haul off all, and haul on board the fore tack; keep in the weather braces forward and let her come to, then brace up. Then haul aft the foresheet, jib, and staysail sheets, and haul the bow lines; then haul taut the weather braces, lee tacks, and weather sheets, and have the braces let go at once. Then when I give the word to haul mainsail, the yards should swing of themselves. Sir.”
The faces of the three captains bore no expression whatever. “Mr. Bandy,” said Dale, “how do you find the true azimuth?”
Thank God, Sam breathed; he had just reviewed this. “Sir, I add the complement of the latitude, the complement of the altitude, and the sun’s or star’s polar distance into one figure,” he recited. “From half this sum I subtract the polar distance, keeping note of the h
alf-sum and the remainder. Now, to the arithmetical complement of the cosine of the latitude, I add the arithmetical complement of the cosine of the altitude, the log sines of the half-sum, and the remainder. The sum of these four logarithms will give the cosine of half the true azimuth. The true azimuth is this figure doubled, expressed from the north when in north latitude. Sir.”
After an hour and a half, Dale said, “Gentlemen, do you need a few moments to refresh?”
Sam and Bliven both shook their heads. “No, sir, thank you.”
“Then let us proceed.” Commodore Dale knew the lie of the national politics better than perhaps any other officer in the squadron. Their appearance in the Mediterranean had quieted the Barbary states to the point that there was a faction in the United States to call off the hostilities. Ships would be laid up in ordinary, officers would be furloughed on half-pay, but midshipmen would simply be turned out. Dale knew in his bones that as soon as their backs were turned, the dey and the bashaws would be right back up to their old tricks, and it would be all to do over again. There must be a whole new crop of midshipmen. He could think of only one sure way to bind Putnam and Bandy to the service, and that was to pass them through their lieutenants’ examinations without delay. Their value to the service, as demonstrated by their actions on the Enterprise, would sustain him in any haste or irregularity.
After three hours Dale looked searchingly left and right at both Captains Barron, who nodded slowly, their lips compressed. “Gentlemen,” began the commodore, “the situation of our navy is such that we think it well to not just recognize your past conduct, but ensure your future connection with the service. Your appointments will be provisional, of course, but until such time as they are formalized, you are to regard yourselves as holding the rank of lieutenant, although your duties on your own vessel will remain the same. Now, if you will be advised by me, apply to our purser here on board for needle and thread. Have a chair in the wardroom and sew these on at once.” From the box Dale extracted two epaulettes with dangling gold cordage, which looked strangely large when disembodied from a coat. “He will also provide you one month’s lieutenant’s wages. It is just past noon; we give you the afternoon ashore to reflect on your new responsibilities and recreate yourselves. Your boat will pick you up on the wharf at eight tonight.” The captains stood.
“Forgive me,” stammered Bliven. “I am amazed.”
“As am I,” added Sam. “We were midshipmen for three hours.”
“Not at all.” Dale shook his head. “Your commissions date from the time of your enlistments. You have been midshipmen these four months. You distinguished yourselves in action, which gives you more experience than half the lieutenants in the service. Leave the details to me. I am confident that your commissions will be approved.”
“Yes, sir.” They saluted and departed carrying their epaulettes, their already outdated midshipmen’s commissions in their pockets. It required an hour to transact with the purser, sew the epaulettes onto the left shoulders of their coats, and be deposited on the Gibraltar wharf for an afternoon’s liberty.
Once they got home, Dale knew they would not see service again until they were well past their fifteenth birthdays, and sixteen was more likely. The navy had plenty of junior lieutenants of that age—a fact of which the captains regularly complained in begging the Navy Department to give them more seasoned junior officers. But here would be two lieutenants who were already tested in battle.
Hard by the wharf, Sam and Bliven found a tavern called the Dolphin, which was run by a barrel-chested Englishman named Duckworth. “I served ten years,” he imparted after learning their situation and selling them a loaf of fresh bread, “then settled here as you see. Once we took this ruddy rock from the Dons, it will be British for centuries, so no need to worry about slack business as long as there is a navy, what? Yours or ours, all are welcome.”
Duckworth proceeded to instruct them on the best vantage points to see the most famous profiles of the celebrated Rock. “Reserve the larger part of your bread,” he advised. “You will want it once you reach the rock. Then, if you are able to buy a good supper, come back at six.”
“Why should we save bread?” asked Bliven.
Duckworth smiled. “You will see” was all he would say.
They had ascended some three hundred feet to a small park, which left them gazing upward a thousand feet to its summit. Among the others taking in the sight was a thin, fit, black-haired British lieutenant named Showalter who engaged them in conversation.
“So,” said Bliven with satisfaction, “this is one of the Pillars of Hercules.”
“Indeed,” said Showalter. “But hardly solid as a pillar. A honeycomb would provide a better analogy.”
“Truly?” asked Bliven.
“Most certainly. I have no other business. Would you like to see the inside?”
“Most surely, yes, that is very kind.”
Showalter led them down a street to a guardhouse in the side of the rock, at the entrance to what appeared to be a great cave. As they drew near, Sam and Bliven looked up and could see muzzles of guns, enormous guns, protruding from limestone ports as though from a gigantic white ship of the line.
Inside, Showalter conducted them through a maze of tunnels past their gun emplacements. Until that day Bliven had never thought of the famous Rock of Gibraltar as anything but solid stone, yet much of it, as he learned, is limestone and honeycombed with caverns. In the nearly one hundred years of their occupation, the British had fortified it in the most fearsome way, with guns far larger than any he had ever seen. In the tunnels they began to be trailed by a troop of apes—small, inquisitive apes, the males of which weighed perhaps thirty pounds and the females two-thirds that size. They were not tame, but their lively dark eyes evinced their anxiety to be offered morsels of bread.
“So that’s why he said save the bread.” Bliven smiled. Wherever they stopped, the apes stopped and crouched or sat down, unnervingly close, but they seemed discreet, almost polite. But once they offered a piece of bread, an ape would snatch it in a flash of greed and presumption. There was no end to the amusement. “Have you trained them to fetch powder when you exercise the guns?” he asked.
“True powder monkeys,” Showalter laughed. “Now, that would be something.”
Sam and Bliven regained the wharf, and the Dolphin, more than two hours before the boat would come from the Enterprise. Duckworth set before them bowls of a savory stew as the tavern began to fill with British sailors and townspeople.
“Now,” said the tavern keeper, “you shall see something! To entertain the sailors I have hired this couple of gitanos, who play and dance their gypsy music most lively. You shall see!”
There was no stage, but a man and woman in what Bliven took to be native costume strode with some ceremony to a heavy trestle table in the center of the room. The man began to play a guitar in the most blazing manner, and singing to accompany himself—high, nasal, impassioned, and ornamented, unlike anything he had ever heard before. To Sam and Bliven’s amazement the woman stepped onto a bench and then mounted the table, keeping first time and then double time with stamps of her feet on the table, before launching into a controlled staccato of the hard soles of her shoes on the table, even as she accompanied herself with castanets and occasionally joined in the song, throwing herself into the music in the most vehement way. By the time she finished she glistened with sweat, the press of her dark nipples prominent beneath the damp white linen of her blouse, her eyes fiery with the emotion of the performance, which left Bliven breathtaken. Never had he imagined a woman capable of such fire and passion, such a lack of inhibition that it seemed her very soul was crying out in song. Quietly Bliven rose from the table and motioned for Duckworth to lean over the bar. “What music is this?” he whispered. “Has it got a name?”
“Why, bless you sir,” said Duckworth quietly. “I don’t know as how it’s
got a name, it’s just what the Spanish gypsies do. Sort of their national music. Do you fancy it?”
“It’s on fire,” gushed Bliven. “I’ve never heard the like at all.”
Duckworth nodded. “That’s just the way with the gitanos. Andalusia is full of them.”
Andalusia, Bliven reflected. He had heard of it, read of it, and now he was here. To so experience the world was a marvelous thing. Sam and Bliven judged it a wonderful day, and luckily done, for the Enterprise was ordered home the next day, carrying dispatches from the squadron.
Their westward passage fought both current and prevailing wind, seven weeks of hard sailing and constant tacking. They did not dock in Boston until early in October, lucky to have come ahead of the winter storms. They would not sail again before spring, so the officers were placed on leave until they should be recalled. Sterett was neither extravagant nor sentimental in sending off his midshipmen, but the spare fact that he told them they had done well made it all the more meaningful. Bliven and Sam took trouble to thank Lieutenant Porter for his tutoring in the academics, but Bliven spent a few moments lingering over the irony that it was Curtis’s harrowing bouts of swordsmanship that probably saved their lives, yet he had come to dislike him so intensely that he felt relieved that Curtis had already quit the ship and he was saved the experience of a farewell. The only other one that Bliven took the trouble to see was Pelham the chaplain. During his boyhood, God and religion were concepts that he had accepted, but the existence of different denominations and the competition among them over which was the correct path to salvation were not part of the family discussion. Pelham taught him that kindness and solicitude were virtues not confined to the Congregationalist church they attended when farmwork allowed. Indeed, he found in Pelham, who was of the old Episcopal stamp, a comfort often lacking in the judgmental certainty and frost of his own church.
Their victory over the pirate corsair Tripoli had made them famous; the Congress presented Lieutenant Commandant Sterett with a sword on behalf of a grateful nation, and President Jefferson himself wrote Sterett an extravagant letter. “Those Barbarians have been suffered to trample on the sacred faith of treaties, on the rights and laws of human nature!” it was widely published. “In proving to them that our past condescensions were from a love of peace, not a dread of it, you have deserved well of your country.”
The Shores of Tripoli Page 8