Eleven
USS Constellation, 17.11° N, 62.30° W February 1799
SIX WEEKS had passed since Constellation had parted ways with Redoubtable off Saint-Domingue and returned to station. In his after cabin on board ship in Saint Kitts, Thomas Truxtun had suffered the daily drudgery of organizing convoys and dispatching patrols, along with the myriad other details of naval deployment insisted on by Secretary Stoddert and the Navy Department. Although he performed his desk duties with alacrity, he yearned to be at sea. And that is where he went at the first opportunity, taking Constellation southward toward the island of Guadeloupe for a mission of personal reconnaissance. Guadeloupe was not within his designated sector of the West Indies. Nonetheless, as commodore of an American squadron he was given wide latitude to cruise where he deemed it advisable. And he considered it advisable to inspect for himself the French naval base at Basse-Terre.
He found a tidy colonial town with volcanic terrain as a backdrop and a crescent-shaped harbor in the foreground. Dominating the harbor at seaside was a gray stone fortress boasting the tricolor flag of the French Republic and an impressive array of what Truxtun assumed were both 32-pounder and 64-pounder cannon on the embrasures. Anchored within the harbor, from what he could see, was a heavy frigate of the French navy—La Vengeance, he assumed, given her impressive size—and a corvette of perhaps twenty guns. Both vessels were anchored within a bevy of smaller double-masted and single-masted vessels. To his surprise—and more, to his concern—Truxtun did not find Constitution , United States, or any other American warship from the Prince Rupert Station patrolling the area.
For three days Constellation stood off and on the western wing of the butterfly-shaped island, repeatedly sailing close to the range of the fortress’ great guns and firing blank charges to windward, challenging the two French warships to come out and fight. Despite their superior firepower, the French ships remained smugly at anchor. Finally, on Monday, February 7, a disgusted Truxtun ordered Nate Waverly to take Constellation back to Saint Kitts.
Two days later found Constellation five miles northeast of Nevis under all sail to topgallants, despite a low-lying bank of ominous clouds gathering to eastward. A half-hour ago, at noon, the wind had backed and the barometer had begun to fall. Prudent seamanship dictated a reduction of canvas to brace for heavy weather. Captain Truxtun, however, refused to steer the prudent course. Nor would he, he informed his officers, until he entertained no doubt about the identity of the white pyramids of sail visible on the horizon.
When first sighted, the mystery ship was standing to westward on a northerly course. Constellation was passing between the islands of Nevis and Redonda on a similar course. Thus the ship, whoever she was, was positioned to the northwest of the American frigate, her topgallants appearing just over the horizon to those on deck. Truxtun immediately ordered Lt. Andrew Sterrett, senior officer of the deck, to crowd on all sail, including studdingsails aloft and a-low, and told Nate Waverly to shape a course in pursuit.
“Storm’s comin’ up smartly, Captain,” Waverly warned, stating the obvious as Sterrett repeated the order to Boatswain Bowles, who repeated it to his mates. A shrill of whistles sent men up the foremast and mainmast yards to extend the studdingsail booms out to windward beyond the reach of the square sails, putting on an extra spread of canvas to catch the wind and add another two or three knots of speed. “Stuns’ls aren’t made for the sort of wind that’s coming.”
“I am aware of that, thank you, Mr. Waverly,” Truxtun replied politely. He continued to study the movements of the mystery ship ahead.
With the extra press of canvas, Constellation surged ahead. Within the hour the hull of the mystery ship was inching above the horizon. Truxtun glanced at John Rodgers, who held the ship in the lens of a glass.
“What do you make of her, Mr. Rodgers?”
“Can’t tell yet, sir. She’s ship-rigged and about our length. She’s not American. And her beam’s too narrow to be Dutch or Swedish.”
“Mr. Cutler?”
“I agree, sir.” Standing nearer the larboard rail than the others, Richard had to shout over the hum and rattle of the wind in the rigging. “She’s either British or French. Maybe Spanish. And you were right, sir. She’s no merchantman.”
“A ship of war, then?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“That is what I recorded in my log, Mr. Cutler, not an hour ago. And that is why we’re in pursuit of her. Mr. Sterrett, is the recognition signal ready?”
“Ready, sir. Midshipman Porter and Midshipman Ayres are standing by.”
“Very well. I predict, gentlemen, that we’ll soon have our answer.”
“Shall we beat to quarters, sir?”
“Not yet, Mr. Rodgers. But we would do well to begin preparations.”
“I’ll see to it, sir.”
As Sterrett made his way forward to speak to the boatswain, he had to brace himself against the sharp heel of the ship.
A vessel coming hull-up to those on the deck of another vessel of equal size signifies that the two vessels are approximately three miles apart, that being the distance from any given point to the horizon. Constellation was putting on a show of speed sufficient to impress any man’s navy and was rapidly closing the distance. Whitewater spewed from her cutwater, bursting over her bows in dazzling rainbows, splattering her yellow-pine planking and foredeck rigging. When Midn. John Dent, his sunburned face flushed with excitement, reported that the chip log he had tossed astern indicated they were making a good sixteen knots, even Nate Waverly could not suppress a smile. For one brief, gleeful moment they were on a joyride, racing on a sleigh heaved forward by a team of galloping, frothing horses as the heart of every man jack on board pumped hard with a bizarre blend of fear, frenzy, and outright exhilaration.
An ear-piercing CRACK! aloft that sounded like a cannon shot wiped the smile off Waverly’s face. The lower studdingsail boom on the mainmast had broken almost in two and now hung down in an inverted L, swinging back and forth, its torn sail fluttering furiously, impotently, in the mounting wind.
“Leave it!” Truxtun shouted. “Mr. Sterrett, the private signal!”
Andrew Sterrett faced forward and slowly raised and lowered his arms. At the mainmast, David Porter acknowledged and hoisted a red-white-and-blue-striped flag to the topmast. At the foremast, Harry Ayres hauled up a solid blue flag. The combination of those flags on the first two masts was the Royal Navy’s private recognition signal for the month of February 1799. Every British and American ship operating in the Caribbean Sea had explicit instructions on how to respond to this signal. Astern, on the mizzen peak, the large American ensign curled and snapped in the freshening breeze. Above, dark clouds drifted over the sun.
Moments merged into minutes, and the minutes dragged on, and still there was no response from the mystery ship.
“Mr. Cutler,” Truxtun shouted, “cast loose the starboard guns. Give her a warning shot.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Mr. Rodgers, we’ll give her one minute to respond. If she fails to do so, we shall beat to quarters.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
As Richard made his way to the main hatchway amidships, he made a quick mental calculation. Perhaps a mile of water separated the two ships. The American frigate was proving herself the faster vessel by half. At things stood now, Constellation’s guns could be brought to bear within thirty minutes.
Just as he reached the ladder leading below, Richard heard a cry from aloft. He glanced ahead, beneath the taut fore course, its leeches shuddering under the strain of the wind. The mystery ship, now clearly profiled as a frigate, had shifted course to the northwest, bringing the wind on her quarter, presumably her fastest point of sail. That sudden change of course put her on an approximate heading for the Dutch island of Saint Eustatius.
On the gun deck, Richard gave the order. “Loose starboard guns! Open ports! Number one gun, fire a blank charge when ready!”
The
gun barked out a warning. Three tons of black iron lurched inboard until checked by breeching ropes.
Men waited, ears primed.
Seconds ticked by. Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . . Suddenly a pair of staccato tattoos pierced the air. Gun crews, formed in their divisions, made final preparations for battle. The weather deck above them resounded with the footfalls and shouts of sailors and Marines taking their stations in the rigging, on the fighting tops, and behind the wall of hammocks jammed tight inside bulwark netting.
Richard felt Constellation swerve hard off the wind in pursuit just as another round of muddled shouts clamored from above.
“She’s hoisting the tricolor, Captain!”
“L’Insurgente!” he heard the cry of a sharp-eyed sailor.
Richard cursed under his breath. America had a score to settle with this thirty-four-gun French frigate. American blood was on her decks. God alone knew how many merchant vessels she had seized, how many innocent sailors she had dispatched to the ocean floor. And she had taken Retaliation off the coast of Saint Kitts and imprisoned her crew.
“Beg pardon, sir, but why is she running from us? Why show us her heels?” asked Cyrus Moffett. At age twelve he was the youngest and shyest of the eight midshipmen on board. His straight blond hair was abruptly cut off at the nape, and his face was badly scarred by a childhood bout with chicken pox. Assigned to number two gun, he had come over to where Richard was peering out through gun port number three.
Richard glanced over at the chubby preadolescent whose father was a senator from Rhode Island and a personal friend of Thomas Truxtun. Like the other midshipmen he was dressed in white breeches and a loose-fitting shirt under a plain blue undress coat. Cyrus blinked hard as he returned Richard’s look and tried to keep his lower lip from quivering. Despite the cool ocean wind sweeping in through the open ports, beads of sweat had formed high on his brow under the rim of his cocked hat and were trickling down his peach-fuzzed cheeks.
“You’ll have to ask her captain, Cyrus,” Richard said in a confidential, off-handed tone. Calling a midshipman on duty by his first name went against naval regulations. Nonetheless, it helped ease the lad’s anxiety. Richard well remembered his own fear and anxiety as a young midshipman sailing into his first battle. “But I suspect he has orders to avoid a fight.”
“Why, sir? If I might ask?”
“His mission is to destroy enemy commerce, not to pick a fight with a man-of-war and put at risk one of the few frigates the French have in these waters.”
“I see, sir. I had not thought of that.” A hopeful lilt entered his voice when he asked, in hushed tones, “So you think we won’t engage?”
Richard shook his head. “To the contrary. We will engage if our captain has anything to say about it, and I believe he does. Now, return to station, Mr. Midshipman Moffett. Do your duty. Make your family proud.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Moffett said, backing away reluctantly.
More excited shouts from above. “She’s taking in her t’gallants!” Then, louder, “She’s hauling her wind!”
Richard’s eyes swept the gun deck. Gun crews were at their assigned posts, their ports open, implements ready, each gun loaded, extra powder and round shot secured nearby. Everything appeared in order. He touched his tricorne hat to Andrew Sterrett, stationed aft, and stepped up the broad wooden ladder to the weather deck. Constellation remained under full sail, despite the threatening clouds approaching fast from the east. Ahead, L’Insurgente, her sail plan mirroring that of the American vessel, had come to the wind and was sailing north-northeast directly into the path of the oncoming storm. Apparently, Richard mused, her captain was gambling on the storm providing some means of escape.
Amid a shrill of boatswain’s whistles Constellation swung to starboard on a course to cut her off, sailing as close to the wind as she could lie.
For the moment, Truxtun controlled the weather gauge, normally an advantageous position that allowed a ship to windward of another ship to dictate battle tactics. But under these circumstances that advantage came at a price. Constellation was heeling hard to leeward in pursuit of an enemy on a slightly less than parallel course. Her larboard guns—those that would come to bear on this tack—had their ports clamped shut to prevent seawater from washing in.
Truxtun passed word forward: run out the windward guns.
Richard relayed the order below. Moments later Constellation feathered into the wind and the starboard leeches of her great square sails began to slacken and shiver. As soon as the sharp heel came off her, gun crews on the starboard side heaved on ropes and pulleys to haul the massive iron beasts up the slight incline of deck until their muzzles protruded from their ports and their carriages bumped against the hull. When gun captains verified that the guns were secured, Constellation fell off the wind and back on course. The added weight extended to windward helped to stabilize the frigate and added another knot or two of speed.
That advantage was lost minutes later when the squall struck the American frigate, forcing her over to leeward. Gear stowed loosely belowdecks came undone, the noise of the crashing and banging audible over the shriek of the wind. Men caught unprepared on deck lost their footing and careened hard against the larboard bulwarks. Up on the weather deck and in the rigging, sailors in the eye of the onslaught grabbed hold of shrouds, spars, ratlines, anything they could hang on to for dear life. Another loud CRACK! and the upper studdingsail boom went by the boards.
“Up helm!” John Rodgers yelled through a speaking trumpet. He had his left arm wrapped around the mizzenmast and his left leg braced out. Four helmsmen, fighting to maintain their footing, gripped the spokes of the double wheel and battled the helm over. Slowly, slowly, the frigate turned into the wind. “Let fly all sheets!” Rodgers roared.
As the punishing strain on the top-hamper eased, sailors released sheets from their belaying pins on fife rail and pin rail. Canvas rumbled, then thundered in almighty protest as Constellation, the power off her, rounded instinctively head on into the driving squall and came to a standstill. Gale-force winds screamed in the rigging as big droplets of blood-warm rain pounded her decks and cascaded into the sea from her scuppers. The storm blew over quickly, and Constellation was back on the chase, her sails once again sheeted home.
Ahead, the howling hammer of wind bashed L’Insurgente just as her crew was laid out on the yards in a desperate attempt to reduce canvas. It was too little, too late. The Americans watched in horror as the French frigate’s main topmast snapped at the cap, taking the sailors on the main topmast yard down with it. Arms and legs flailing, they tumbled onto the deck or into the sea below. Seconds later, a tangle of spars, rigging, and sails crashed down on top of them. Crews on deck attacked the debris with axes and cutlasses, slashed it to bits, and heaved it overboard.
Escape, always a gamble for L’Insurgente, was no longer in the cards. As the storm passed over her and the seas calmed, she stood on a starboard tack and ran out her guns to fight.
Constellation crossed L‘Insurgente’s wake and ran under her lee. Six bells in the afternoon watch sounded as the American frigate closed to within pistol shot range. Those on deck could see and hear a French officer standing by the larboard taffrail shouting through a speaking trumpet.
“What’s he saying, sir?”
Richard vaguely recognized the voice of Frederick Bowles behind him. He was listening intently to the exchange taking place in English and held up a hand for quiet. Constellation and L’Insurgente were both sailing to northward on more or less parallel courses. The American frigate stood to leeward of the Frenchman, whose once graceful profile had been desecrated by the loss of her main topmast.
“That’s the first lieutenant speaking,” Richard said, as much to himself as to the boatswain. “He’s saying that his captain wants to parley with us.”
They waited for Truxtun’s response, which was quick in coming. “I have this to say to your captain, monsieur,” he yelled through a trumpet. “St
rike your colors or I shall fire into you!”
Seconds elapsed in translation before the French captain seized the speaking trumpet for himself. “Reddition sans combat n’est pas une option!” he shouted back defiantly.
Truxtun’s tone in reply was equally defiant. “Comme vous voulez, monsieur!” Truxtun rapped out an order to Midn. John Dent, who strode forward at a good clip.
“Mr. Cutler, Captain Truxtun’s compliments and you may fire the starboard guns in rotation!”
Richard clambered down the ladder and strode forward. At number one gun he peered through the port, checked the quoin, stepped aside, and nodded to the gun captain: “Fire!”
At number two gun: “Fire!”
At number three gun: “Fire!”
One by one, forward to aft, Constellation‘s great guns unleashed fourteen rounds of 24-pound shot that streaked toward L’Insurgente’s larboard hull at 1,200 feet per second. With each orange-tongued discharge, a red-painted carriage screeched inboard and acrid smoke swept across the deck. Gun crews wormed out, sponged out, rammed home, ran out the guns, and prepared to fire a second round.
The intermittent boom! of 6-pounder guns echoed down from the weather deck, and the pop! of daisy-cutters came from high up on the fighting tops, all punctuated by the intermittent crack! of the Marines’ musketry. A savage outpouring of double shot, grape, and lead pummeled L‘Insurgente’s hull, rigging, decks, and bulwarks. Below, on the gun deck, the first rotation had spent its course and the fourteen guns were repeating the sequence.
L‘Insurgente responded with a broadside of her own, most of her guns aimed high, at the rigging. One shot aimed level slammed against Constellation’s hull near where Richard and Andrew Sterrett were standing by gun number seven. Instinctively they recoiled from the impact. But the ball bounced off the oaken hull as though it were a rubber ball hitting a wall, inflicting no damage whatsoever. The two officers exchanged a glance, the thought of one read clearly upon the face of the other: Quercus virens, the southern live oak at the heart of their ship’s frame, had just proved its mettle.
The Power and the Glory Page 20