“No, no, not a sixpence!” was the reported response of an apoplectic Pickering upon reading the delegation’s report. “Millions for defense, I say, but not one penny for tribute!”
“Damn the villains!” screamed the Boston Traveler and other Federalist newspapers.
Cries of high dudgeon resounded through the halls of Congress in Philadelphia, though not in every office. Some southern Republicans, convinced that Adams and Hamilton had somehow concocted the whole affair to provoke war with France, demanded that details of the delegation’s report be made public. President Adams was only too happy to oblige. He ordered ten thousand copies of the report to be printed and distributed throughout the states, changing only the names of the three French agents in the eye of the storm to the code letters X, Y, and Z. The result was a volcanic eruption of anti-French sentiment flowing hot within the psyche of the young republic, and with it a national drumbeat for war.
The American public responded to a call to arms that bordered on hysteria after former secretary of war Henry Knox warned that France was preparing to attack the American South with West Indian garrisons reinforced by legions of former African slaves bent on revenge. In reply, President Adams ordered an army of 14,000 men to be raised and commanded by George Washington—coaxed out of retirement by his sense of duty and his love of country—with the ambitious Alexander Hamilton as his second in command and his chief secretary, Tobias Lear, as his aide-de-camp.
In the front ranks of the military buildup was the newly minted U.S. Navy. Work on the second three frigates picked up in cadence with the war drums, while American agents in Europe and the Caribbean hurriedly shopped for other vessels of war, primarily in the dockyards and arsenals of Great Britain—America’s preferred source for military hardware. In negotiating such transactions, many Britons regarded America’s interests as their own. Every American gun aimed at a French warship, Rear Adm. Horatio Lord Nelson thundered in Parliament and Whitehall, meant one less British gun that would have to be aimed at the French. American naval personnel away on leave were hastily summoned back to duty.
“WHEN WILL CONGRESS declare war, do you think?”
That popular question was posed by Andrew Sterrett during a supper of thick mutton stew laden with potatoes, peas, and turnips brought aft by wardroom stewards from the camboose stove located forward in the galley. Three bottles of red Bordeaux contributed by the third lieutenant from his personal stores supplemented the meal and promoted lively conversation. During Constellation’s second morning at sea, Captain Truxtun had been invited to dine with his commissioned and senior warrant officers in the wardroom, which was located aft on the berthing deck directly beneath the captain’s cabin. All three lieutenants were present, as was Lt. James Carter of the newly formed Marine Corps, and the ship’s surgeon, George Balfour. To each side of the large oval dining table, to larboard and starboard, were the officer’s cabins—cubicles, really—set off from each other by thick canvas walls and with a rectangular piece of canvas on hinges serving as a door. Beyond the table, abaft the mizzenmast, was the tiller room housing the rudder. Clusters of candles set about the area provided light, their flames barely flickering in the still air. Constellation was rigged for night sailing and was making sluggish headway in a diminishing breeze on a calm sea.
Sterrett had put the question to the table, although he glanced in Truxtun’s direction as though expecting the captain to answer.
John Rodgers spoke instead. “It’s been more than two months since we received word from Paris,” the first lieutenant observed. “Thus far, Congress has done the one thing it does well, which is, of course, nothing. I’m beginning to doubt it will declare war.”
Richard was not surprised by the conviction behind that remark. He had come to esteem this tall, dark-haired, sea officer despite his relative youth and lack of naval experience. Rodgers, he had learned, had commanded his first merchant vessel at the age of eighteen, a credential that demanded respect, and he understood the workings of a square-rigger better than most sea captains of Richard’s acquaintance. As first lieutenant, that was Rodgers’ primary responsibility: management of the ship’s business on a day-to-day basis, with sole oversight of the station bill—a list of who did what, when, and where on board ship while under way—and the watch bill, which rotated two watches of equal size throughout the day and night for the routine sailing of the ship. He also assumed command of the ship should the captain step ashore or become incapacitated, and when the ship was coming to or weighing anchor.
Even more important, this educated, self-confident Marylander with bushy sideburns had in spades what Captain Truxtun appeared to value most in his chain of command. A month ago, during the memorable evening when the ship’s officers had gathered together in the captain’s cabin for the first time, Truxtun had defined for them his vision of a naval officer. “A man of good education, good character, good connections, and manly deportment,” he had stated, “who is thoroughly grounded in the minutiae of naval affairs and who exhibits zeal, dignity, enterprise, and prudence—and who, above all, is well-mannered, self-disciplined, courageous, and has a passion for honor and glory.” The difficulty, he had confessed at the time, was finding officers who possessed such qualities. Which was why, he concluded, it pleased him to have so many of them serving in his ship. That remark had caused the elders of the eight midshipmen to steal glances at each other, and the younger ones to blush.
“Why ever not, sir?” a thin-boned, sandy-haired boy of fourteen inquired of Rodgers, his voice edged with disappointment. He was one of two midshipmen invited up from the orlop deck to the wardroom, the two senior midshipmen now serving as officers of the deck under the critical eye of Nate Waverly, the ship’s master. “When the envoys’ report was published and the riots broke out, I assumed war was inevitable. My father has been a Republican since before I can remember, and even he now wears the black cockade,” referring to a Federalist adornment worn in the hat to signify opposition to France.
“Quite so, Mr. Dent. But I believe you misunderstand me. What I am referring to is a declared war.”
John Dent continued to stare at him, his face full of questions. “My apologies, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
“Perhaps I can explain, Mr. Dent.”
All eyes swung to Captain Truxtun, who leaned forward on his chair at the far end of the table. Soon after entering the wardroom he had removed his blue dress coat with buff lapels and twin gold epaulets and had draped it over the back of his chair, an invitation for everyone present to do likewise. He had taken a seat and crossed one leg casually over the other, listening to the conversation in buff breeches and a buff vest with a gold button on each of the four pockets, each emblazoned with the same fouled anchor and American eagle design evident on the buttons of his discarded dress coat.
“I believe the point Mr. Rodgers is making is that many of our fellow citizens, particularly those living in the South and West, continue to believe, whatever evidence may exist to the contrary, that President Adams and the Federalist Party are to blame for our current impasse with France.” He held out his arms expansively. “I trust no one in this cabin shares the folly of their thinking. But once a man grabs hold of such a position, it is often difficult to get him to let go, your father’s admirable example notwithstanding, Mr. Dent.
“Thus, the reasoning goes in Congress, if the United States declares war on France, Republican extremists in the South and West may demand secession from the Union. And there just may be enough of them to cause damage to our young republic. Am I stating your position fairly enough, Mr. Rodgers?”
“To a T, sir. Thank you.”
“Do you understand now, Mr. Dent?”
“I understand better, sir. But with respect, I remain confused about our role. Are we simply to patrol the seas and convey merchantmen back and forth to the Indies, as we are now doing? So far we’ve seen naught of interest beyond two jackass brigs,” referring to the popular
term for a schooner-rigged vessel of the Revenue Cutter Service, a subset of the Treasury Department whose mission was to guard the coast against maritime misfits.
“That is what I have told you, have I not?”
“Yes, sir, you have.”
“Yet despite what I have told you, you remain unconvinced. Is it because you signed on for something other than convoy duty, which in fact you find rather dull? You would prefer something a bit more exciting, perhaps, an engagement with the enemy, yardarm to yardarm?”
Dent dropped his eyes. “No sir, I—”
“Be not timid, Mr. Dent!” Truxtun pronounced. “Stand up for what you believe! I respect that in a man, whatever his views, whatever his age. And I commend any man who seeks battle with his country’s enemies. Too many do-gooders in Congress speak boldly from under their desks. I applaud a man who puts himself out there front and center, with feet squared.”
Dent nodded appreciatively.
“Captain, if I may,” the captain of Marines joined in. Lt. James Carter was of average height with whitish-blond hair and a no-nonsense look about him. The cerulean-blue dress coat draped over the back of his chair sported red lapels and cuffs, and red lining on the stand-up collar. On its right shoulder the tassels of a single gold epaulet gleamed in the shimmering light of a wide-bottomed candle ensconced on the dining table. “As you indicated when explaining our orders, sir, if fired upon, we are permitted to return fire. But are we permitted such liberty only if and when we ourselves or a vessel in our charge is fired upon first?” It was a question for which every one of the 343 sailors serving in the ship desired an answer, for it underscored why many of them had signed on with Constellation: for hearth and home, yes; for honor and glory, of course; but primarily for prize money, to supplement an otherwise modest salary of fifteen dollars per month.
“Those are our orders, Mr. Carter,” Truxtun replied stiffly, adding in a more conciliatory tone, “although I am quick to point out that those orders are subject to change. They may already have changed. Three weeks ago I was at the Navy Department on Walnut Street, where I met with Mr. Stoddert.” He was referring to Benjamin Stoddert, the newly appointed secretary of the Navy, the first to hold that position within the newly created Navy Department, itself a subset of the War Department. “Among other items, Mr. Stoddert advised me that if the United States or one of its ships is attacked by a country that has declared war on us, our Constitution permits the president to act on his own authority to protect American interests. Under these circumstances, the United States may go to war without war actually being declared by Congress. Whether our current guerre de course with France qualifies as such an emergency will no doubt be debated for years to come. But for the moment, if the president believes it does, that view prevails.”
Silence ensued as each man pondered that statement. Then, ending the evening on a business note, Truxtun announced, “Gentlemen, since it appears certain that Constellation is sailing into war, we shall start preparing for battle tomorrow at four bells in the forenoon watch. Mr. Cutler will conduct gun drills in the morning and again in the afternoon. We shall drill twice every day, and we shall improve every day over the previous day’s performance. If we do not, we shall drill again in the evening before supper and spirit rations—if I choose to issue spirit rations. We will drill, and we will drill, and we will drill until the gun crews are too exhausted to go on, and then we shall drill some more. We will drill until I am convinced that our crews are as skilled with the guns and small arms as any British crew afloat. I need not remind you gentlemen that British crews routinely fire three rounds every five minutes. That is a round every minute and a half, a rate almost twice that of the average French crew. It’s a measure of excellence I expect our own crews to achieve. I will settle for nothing less.”
Richard Cutler smiled to himself, recalling the day years ago, during the war with England, when he had heard John Paul Jones exhort his officers using almost those exact words.
Truxtun scraped back his chair and stood up. His officers immediately followed suit. “Good evening to you, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure. Thank you for a delicious supper, and thank you, Mr. Sterrett, for that Bordeaux. It was exceptional. Let us credit the French for something, at least.”
THE NEXT MORNING at precisely ten o’clock, a young Marine drummer stationed amidships on the weather deck launched into a staccato tattoo. His frenzied beat was immediately taken up by a second drummer on the gun deck below. Crews sprang to battle stations, twelve men serving each of the fourteen 24-pounder guns bowsed up tight against the starboard and larboard sides of the frigate, twenty-eight long guns total, each packing enough firepower to break a hole through two feet of solid oak at a range of one thousand yards. On the weather deck, crews of six Marines manned the smaller 12-pounder guns.
Richard stood on the gun deck by the bilge pump afore the mainmast in his long blue dress coat with buff lining, half-lapels, and two vertical rows of brass buttons. In his right hand he held the quarter bill that listed the names of each gun crew and each man’s assignment. With the captain’s approval he had divided the gun deck batteries into three divisions—ten, ten, and eight. The guns in the first division were numbered one through five, larboard and starboard; the second division six through ten, larboard and starboard; and the third division eleven through fourteen, larboard and starboard. Each gun crew thus served two guns of the same number. It was an innovation recently decreed in Marine Rules and Regulations, a uniquely American document that nonetheless took its cue from the venerable British Regulations and Instructions Relating to His Majesty’s Service at Sea.
With a practiced eye, Richard watched as the gunner’s mate in charge of each crew assembled his men in position with the spongers, rammers, and wormers to do the job. Earlier, during the frigate’s weeklong shakedown cruise, he had exercised the men in the evolutions of gun drill, which had changed little since the days of the Continental navy. Except that, by 1798, the linstock formerly used to fire a gun had yielded to the more efficient British-engineered bronze flintlock, which functioned much like the mechanism on a muzzle-loading musket.
The high-pitched squeals of boatswain’s whistles reinforced the drumbeat, directing the sailors to clear the decks for action. Galley fires were extinguished, pumps were made ready, and sand was strewn around the deck. Topmen, the elite of any square-rigger, scampered aloft to reduce canvas to fighting sail—foresails, topsails, topgallants, and driver. Waisters on the weather deck worked in tandem with sailors stationed on the fighting tops and on footropes to lower the royal yardarms and clew up the fore and main courses until they hung loosely in their gear like curtains draped above a window. Belowdecks, men unhinged the canvas partitions that defined the officers’ and captain’s cabins and stowed them aft in steerage, along with artwork, chairs, desks, chests, and anything else portable that could splinter into deadly wooden shrapnel when struck by enemy shot. As a final measure, and for the same reason, the ships’ boats were lowered over the side and towed behind.
With everyone and everything in its proper place, more or less, Captain Truxtun sent Midn. David Porter forward amidships to the large rectangular main hatch, its ornate latticework cover now removed and stowed.
Porter cupped his hands at his mouth. “Captain’s compliments, Mr. Cutler, and you may begin the exercise!”
Richard returned the midshipman’s salute. Facing forward, he brought a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Cast loose the larboard guns!” As he pivoted aft to repeat the order, sailors on the fourteen larboard guns cast off the lashings that secured the guns to the ship’s side and ran the guns inboard on their side tackle until checked by their breeching ropes. With the ten-foot length of the gun inside the ship, sailors removed the wooden tampion plugging the muzzle and made ready to ram a flannel bag of powder down the bore. This would be followed by a round shot taken from a shot rack amidships, followed by a wad made of rope yarn to secure the ball within.
“Run
out the guns!”
Some men in quick time, others less so, heaved on train tackle and hauled the six-thousand-pound guns forward on their red-painted trucks until the front end of the carriages banged against the bulwarks and the gun muzzles protruded their maximum distance through the square ports. When all was ready, gun captains lined up a notch filed on the top of the base ring with another notch on the swell of the muzzle and took aim at an imaginary target at sea.
Richard gave the order. “Fire!”
Gun captains yanked hard on lanyards attached to flintlocks. One metallic click! after another resounded around the gun deck.
“Run in your guns!”
The process was repeated, again and again and again, with the added step of swabbing out the bore with a wet piece of sheepskin affixed to the end of a long wooden staff to extinguish lingering sparks or a smoldering piece of flannel that might later drift out and upward to ignite dry canvas—or worse, prematurely set off a newly inserted bag of powder. Then another cartridge was rammed home, the gun was run out above a protest of squeaking wheels, and the lanyard yanked hard again.
Together with Edward Oates, a former Royal Navy chief gunnery officer, Richard paced the deck back and forth, back and forth, from the camboose stove forward to the captain’s quarters aft, now open to view. He held a watch in one hand as he encouraged one crew, instructed another, reprimanding a gun captain only when he chose to make an example of an error or when he noticed one of his crew slacking off.
The Power and the Glory Page 11