“And, sir?” Speake said, smiling, “I am informed that Constitution is scheduled to sail from Boston within the fortnight. Her destination is also the Indies.”
“Is that a fact?” Truxtun said, his voice laced with sarcasm. “I must say, Lieutenant, you do possess a flair for the dramatic. Exactly where in the Indies, might I inquire?”
Speake reached into his left inside coat pocket. “I believe you’ll find the answer in here, sir. I’ve saved the best for last.” He passed down the table a small sachet with the name “Captain Thomas Truxtun, USS Constellation” written in bold script upon it. “Secretary Stoddert told me to hand this to you personally—and perhaps gave me a clue of what’s inside.” He said those last few words rather mysteriously, and his eyes twinkled with delight as he met the inquiring gaze of the assembled officers.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Truxtun said dryly. He broke the official wax seal and unfolded the flaps. “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me for a moment.”
His officers watched in silence as Truxtun began reading. He nodded now and again as his eyes followed the script down the page. At its conclusion he arched his eyebrows.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, keeping his eyes transfixed on the letter, “it appears that Constitution is bound for the Royal Navy base at Prince Rupert Bay in Dominica. And she is to be joined there by United States.”
Each officer at the table recognized the significance of that news. Dominica was as close to Guadeloupe to the south as Saint Kitts was to the north. With the American frigates Constitution and United States stationed off the island of Dominica, the United States and Great Britain would have the French navy in a vise. Stoddert’s widely publicized theory—that the best way to protect American shipping on the eastern seaboard was to take the war to the Indies—was about to be put into practice.
Truxtun waited until the excited chatter subsided and he again commanded his officers’ attention. “And,” he said, as though what he had to say was nothing out of the ordinary, “it appears that the Navy Department has seen fit to promote me to the rank of commodore.” With that, he folded the letter, tucked it into a coat pocket, picked up his knife and fork, and resumed eating.
John Rodgers jumped up. “Congratulations, sir! Congratulations indeed!” He raised his glass. “Gentlemen, I give you Thomas Truxtun, the first commodore of our United States Navy.”
The other officers scraped back chairs and rose to their feet.
“Hear! Hear!” they shouted. And for one of the few times in anyone’s recollection, Thomas Truxtun did not deflect praise directed at him.
THE TWO LOOKOUTS had been told to search for, and had apparently spotted across twenty miles of open sea, a four-thousand-foot-tall dormant volcano. That was the landmark that charts and sea lore and Mother Nature identified as the island of Saint Kitts. After their initial cries of tentative discovery had drawn all eyes aloft, both lookouts remained mute, as though not yet convinced that the image in the circular lens of their long glasses was not a mirage. Convinced at last, able-rated seaman Toby Higgins cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Deck, there! Land ho! Two points to loo’ard.”
“Saint Kitts?” shouted up Robert Simms, a boatswain’s mate stationed directly below him at the base of the foremast.
“Aye, sir. Saint Kitts.”
“Very good, Higgins. I shall inform the captain.”
As Constellation and her convoy approached the sixty-eight-square-mile island, its contours began to assume discernible forms. Closer in, it was not Mount Liamuiga that commanded everyone’s attention, the volcano’s impressive height notwithstanding. Rather, it was the fortress erected upon Brimstone Hill on the island’s western shore. Fort George emerged from the distance as a colossal structure of black volcanic rock towering eight hundred feet above sea level. At the bastion’s peak, atop its highest tower, fluttered the red cross of Saint George. In 1782, as British forces took leave of America and fought on in the West Indies against France, Britain’s ancient enemy, Admiral de Grasse had achieved what many had considered impossible: he had blown open a breach in the seven-foot-thick walls after a long and savage naval bombardment, and he had ordered French Marines inside to overpower the small British army garrison. A year later, with Saint Kitts restored to British hegemony by the Treaty of Paris, British military engineers went to work to ensure that Fort George would never again suffer the humiliation of surrender. By 1798 its massive embrasures and parapets and blockhouses had earned Fort George the nickname “Gibraltar of the West Indies.” Like its counterpart on the southern tip of Spain, Fort George stood as proof positive that henceforth it would take an act of God, not man, to wrest Saint Kitts and its sister island of Nevis from the grip of the British Empire.
The American convoy sailed past Fort George, southeastward toward Basseterre Roads on the southwestern tip of the island. As they approached the colonial capital, it occurred to Richard that while Saint Kitts had much to offer Great Britain’s army, it had less to offer the Royal Navy. Set within a slight indentation of coastline on an otherwise featureless shore, Basse-Terre’s principal claim to safe harbor was its location on the leeward side of the island. Dockage there was rudimentary, unlike anything Richard had experienced at other British naval bases. The few wooden quays were designed to oblige not British warships, but rather the small, single-masted island packets that hauled cargo back and forth between Nevis, Montserrat, Saba, Saint Martin’s, and Anguilla. For sailors serving in larger vessels such as Constellation, a ship’s boat provided the best means of getting ashore.
Clustered within an array of small fishing and transport vessels in the tiny harbor were four Royal Navy vessels: a light frigate, a brig, and two sloops of war. Not much of a squadron, Richard mused, although one perfectly suited to give chase to the brigands and pirates who lurked in the secluded coves and shallow waters of the Lesser Antilles. One also suited to extend military honors. As Constellation coasted to her anchorage, the starboard side of the British frigate Concorde erupted in salute, an honor immediately answered by the larboard side of the American frigate.
“Anchor’s secure, Captain,” John Rodgers reported after the anchor line had been paid out ten fathoms and the anchor watch had confirmed that the great iron hook held firm in the sandy bottom. At his captain’s insistence, Rodgers used the lower-rank address. Truxtun might be commodore of the squadron, he had told his officers, but he remained captain of this vessel.
“Very well, Mr. Rodgers. Once you have seen to the disposition of L’Albatros and her prisoners, you may inform the boatswain that the men are granted shore leave in rotation. However, my word of warning stands that every man be reminded before going ashore that I will not tolerate misconduct or impropriety of any kind. We are guests of the British. We are representatives of our country. And we must act accordingly. I loathe using the lash, but if I hear so much as a rumor of public drunkenness or debauchery, I shall not hesitate to use it. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Rodgers said. Nothing in his voice indicated that he had already passed on that warning, in no uncertain terms, to the entire ship’s complement. “I quite agree that use of the cat is sometimes necessary to enforce discipline.”
“Indeed, Mr. Rodgers,” Truxtun said. “But only in extreme circumstances.”
Within the hour Constellation piped on board Sir Robert Thomson, the regally clad governor of the island, and David Clarkson, a white-goateed, deeply tanned man from Philadelphia who several years ago had settled on the island with his family. Today, Clarkson served as provisioner of British warships, a profession he had learned during the war as purser in the Continental frigate Trumbull. Joining them under an eight-foot-tall white canvas awning stretched across the aft half of the frigate was the captain of the British frigate Concorde, in full-dress uniform.
“I am honored, Captain Sweeney,” Truxtun greeted him once the side party had piped him on board. However gracious and reassuring Thomson and Clarkson ha
d been in welcoming the Americans to Saint Kitts, Edward Sweeney was the man to whom Truxtun most wanted to talk. At the first appropriate pause in the conversation he turned his full attention to the British frigate commander. “Captain, if I may, do you have intelligence from Guadeloupe?”
Edward Sweeney bowed slightly, his diminutive, almost sickly form reminding Richard of Horatio Nelson when they had met years ago in Antigua. His olive-green eyes shone bright nevertheless, and his face held the hard stamp of a commander in war.
“First, Captain Truxtun, may I say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance. Your reputation precedes you, sir. To answer your question, yes, I do have intelligence from Guadeloupe; though I fear it is not the sort of intelligence you had hoped to hear. Your naval schooner Retaliation has been captured by the French.”
“Retaliation? Isn’t that the French privateer that Captain Decatur captured off the coast of New Jersey?”
“The same, Captain.”
“How did that happen? And when?”
“On the twentieth of last month, off Guadeloupe. Exactly how it happened remains a bit of a mystery. Apparently her captain, a lieutenant named Bainbridge, became separated from his two consorts when they took off in pursuit of a privateer. Sailing on his own, Bainbridge came upon two large vessels he took to be British. He raised the British signal, with no response. Nor was there a response when he raised the American signal. For a reason no one seems able to explain, least of all Bainbridge himself, he decided to take a closer look. What he found were two large French frigates. When they opened fire on him, he surrendered.”
“He did not return fire? For the sake of honor?”
“No, Captain, he did not.”
Truxtun grimaced. “Go on.”
“Captain Bainbridge believed himself hopelessly outgunned. And his consorts were too far away to render assistance. Bainbridge still had a card, however, and he played it well. After his schooner was taken, he managed to convince the French commander that his consorts—the sloops Montezuma and Norfolk—were too heavily armed for the French to engage. So the French abandoned the chase, allowing the sloops to make good their escape.”
“These two French frigates, what were their names?”
“One was L’Insurgente, the other Le Volontaire.”
“I know of L‘Insurgente. She’s a Sémillante-class forty-gun frigate, reputed to be the fastest ship in the French navy. What of Retaliation’s officers and crew?”
“Captain Bainbridge and his commissioned officers were released on their parole and have returned to America. The crew were taken to Basse-Terre in Guadeloupe as prisoners.”
Standard procedure, Richard mused as he listened to the exchange. The rules of naval engagement were quite specific on the disposition of a captured vessel and her crew, and most maritime powers honored those rules. Would revolutionary France? He had his doubts. “Sir, with your permission?”
“Yes, Mr. Cutler?”
Richard’s eyes swung to Sweeney. “Captain, to your knowledge, is Victor Hugues still commissair civil on Guadeloupe?” He was referring to the French official known as “the Colonial Robespierre,” a fervent revolutionary who had been placed in authority after French forces recaptured Guadeloupe in 1794. Detesting royalist sympathizers in equal measure with the British, Hugues had established a regime in Basse-Terre that mirrored the horrors of revolutionary Paris. He ordered a guillotine erected in the public square of the colonial capital and the head of every accused royalist sympathizer on the island chopped off, along with that of anyone possessing a drop of British blood. So deep ran his hatred for anything British that he had ordered the body of the erstwhile British governor exhumed and his remains tossed into a sewer.
Nor did America escape his wrath. Viewing Americans as British in both body and politics, Hugues granted a privateer’s commission to any vessel that applied for one and set loose a fleet to plunder American shipping, claiming a handsome commission on monies raised from the sale of seized goods before sending the balance on to Paris. The view was widely held in European capitals as well as in Philadelphia that if one were to name those French officials most responsible for the current guerre de course between the United States and France, Victor Hugues would be high on anyone’s short list.
“He is, Lieutenant,” Sweeney replied, “although we have reason to believe he won’t hold power much longer. Our spies in Basse-Terre report that Hugues has lost favor with the Directory. Apparently he has overstepped his bounds. He has, in fact, become a major obstacle to peace initiatives.”
Richard cast him a quizzical look. “Peace initiatives? What peace initiatives, Captain?”
“Why, those involving your country, Lieutenant.”
Richard glanced at Truxtun.
“Are you telling us, Captain Sweeney,” Truxtun said, “that the French government is pursuing peace initiatives with the United States?”
“I am, Captain Truxtun. France desires peace with your country, and for a very good reason. French islands in the Indies, including Guadeloupe, cannot survive on their own resources. Until recently, privateers brought in the food and supplies they required, but privateering had been on the wane ever since your navy entered these waters. Today, many innocent people on Guadeloupe are suffering, and they blame Victor Hugues for their pain. His support has eroded, which is why we believe he will soon be replaced.”
“How soon, do you think?”
“Please God, not too soon, Captain. The Royal Navy needs your ships here, since most of ours have been recalled over there.” He pointed in the general direction of Europe. “And of course, we are still feeling the effects of the recent mutinies.” He was referring to two widely publicized strikes by British sailors—one at Spithead, the other at the Nore—demanding better pay and living conditions on board ship. Shockingly, to those familiar with the unyielding dictates of Whitehall, the British Admiralty agreed to make certain concessions. “As you can imagine, such incidents make us particularly vulnerable in a time of war,” Sweeney noted, “and we need the few friends we have to stay with us.”
“Thank you for being so forthcoming, Captain. Whatever peace initiatives may be under way, I can assure you that America will do her part for as long as possible.”
During the ensuing weeks the crews of the American squadron settled into a lifestyle that, when off duty and not out on patrol, allowed them to revel in the sun-drenched tropical paradise amid a local citizenry eager to accommodate a young topman or waister, or a somewhat older lieutenant of Marines, too long away from the scent of a woman. For the officers and crew of Constellation, it was back to strict naval discipline when, in mid-December, signals were received from Fort George announcing that a British mail packet had been sighted closing in on Basseterre Roads. Dispatches had arrived from Admiral Parker in Port Royal, Jamaica.
Ten
Île de la Gonâve, Saint-Domingue December 1798
“GOOD TO SEE you again, Captain Truxtun. Welcome on board Redoubtable . Might I offer you a spot of tea or coffee? Or something stronger, perhaps?”
Thomas Truxtun’s hard, sunburned face relaxed into a smile. “I seem to recall, Captain Hardcastle, that the last time I requested coffee on a Royal Navy vessel, I left the after cabin rather tipsy. Dare I try again?”
“By all means, Captain,” Hugh Hardcastle said straight-faced.
“Then I shall take it black, no sugar.”
“Black, no sugar, it is.” He nodded to his steward and then looked toward Richard Cutler. “Lieutenant?”
Richard quickly turned his attention back to Hugh. He had been giving the captain’s cabin a quick once-over, wondering how a post captain who had attained such heights of rank and promise in such a splendid service as His Majesty’s navy could give it up so easily as Hugh seemed to be doing. “Coffee for me as well, Captain,” Richard said, “with sugar—assuming, of course, that it’s Cutler sugar.”
Hardcastle gave him a rueful look. “I’m told it is. Certainly t
hat is what I ordered the purser to procure. I have my doubts, though. You know pursers. Price is their one and only consideration, and even you must admit that Cutler sugar tends to be rather expensive. And as to what you charge for your rum—well! I am the first to confirm its texture and taste; but good Lord, Lieutenant, how do you get away with demanding such a price?”
Richard grinned. “We don’t demand the price, Captain. We offer it. And people pay it willingly. My father has been telling me since I was a child that whatever it is you’re selling, make it the best money can buy and price it high, to increase its value in the mind of the buyer and to confirm his good judgment. Do that, and you’ll never lack for quality customers. And we never have.”
Hardcastle contemplated that. “I look forward to meeting your father, Lieutenant. I daresay I could learn a great deal from him.”
“As do I still.”
After a pot of rich Jamaican coffee had made the rounds, Thomas Truxtun switched topics to the matter at hand. “What of preparations, Captain? When do you meet with General Toussaint?”
Hugh Hardcastle nodded as if in recognition that the time for polite banter had passed. “We weren’t certain exactly when you would arrive here, though we did manage to predict the day. General Toussaint and his entourage arrived on the island this morning. He has with him his personal guard and a general named Dessalines, his most trusted officer. He puts great stock in Dessalines’ counsel.”
“How many soldiers does he have in his personal guard?”
“Ten.”
“Ten? Is that all?”
“Yes, Captain, it is.” Hardcastle’s tone conveyed surprise at Truxtun’s question. “His main army is encamped near Port-au-Prince. Transporting a large number of them out here would have been logistically challenging. It would also have raised a red flag for André Rigaud, whose base is on the mainland south of here. Besides, why bring in a larger force? Rigaud may control the southern regions of Saint-Domingue, but our ships have been on patrol around this island for three days and have reported seeing nothing. As we speak, Royal Marines are setting up a perimeter near the cove where Lieutenant Cutler and I will be meeting with General Toussaint later this afternoon. Your Marines are most welcome to assist us. You say you have how many with you?”
The Power and the Glory Page 17