“The answer t’ both your questions is the same,” he said. His voice had a distant, secretive quality underscored with acrimony. “And that answer is that Nicholson is a no-account coward.”
Richard leaned in even closer. “That’s a serious charge, Agee,” he half-whispered. “Can you back it up?”
Agreen had to fight to keep his voice low. “Back it up? Jesus, Richard, you backed it up just by what you asked. Instead of doin’ what we were ordered t’ do—chase down the frogs—we cruised for months where the frogs were not. Barbados? It’s a lovely island, I’ll give you that. And I’m jealous as hell of all the time you’ve had here t’ loll about and chase women. But where are the French? Not here, that’s for damn sure. Oh, Nicholson’s a fair enough seaman, I suppose. He’d do well as master of a merchant ship. But for the life of me I will never understand why the Navy Department saw fit t’ rank him number two on the captain’s list. He’s no naval commander. He’ll do whatever it takes to avoid a fight.”
When Richard had no immediate response, Agreen continued.
“Stoddert finally had enough. He fired a broadside, citin’ what he called Nicholson’s ‘litany of failures,’ and ordered him t’ swallow the anchor. That sure as hell got Nicholson’s dander up. He fumed and raged around this deck like an angry peacock. But there was nothin’ he could do. Stoddert wanted him out, and out he went. Silas took command, and since then morale on board ship has risen pell-mell from the orlop up t’ the weather deck. We’ve seen our share of action, and Silas aims for us t’ see more. At supper t’night he’ll tell you about this island off Guadeloupe. It’s where we’re headin’ next. It’s a refuge for French privateers, so the British tell us, and Silas figures there might be some ripe fruit in there for us t’ pick. Let’s hope so. He aims t’ restore the honor of this ship, Richard, and by God he’ll do it if only Boney will stop talkin’ peace and give him half a chance.”
AS MUCH AS he hated to leave his cousins, Richard ached to get back to sea, especially with the prospect of serving, however briefly, with Agreen Crabtree and Silas Talbot on board the magnificent Constitution. In any case, several members of his family had already left Barbados. Hugh and Robin had departed three weeks earlier on board Redoubtable and by now should be halfway to England. Caleb, too, was gone. The previous week he had boarded a Cutler merchant brig bound for Charleston to offload hogsheads of sugar and molasses before sailing on to Boston with a cargo of cotton and tobacco that would eventually find its way, together with barrels of Cutler dark rum, to a London dockyard along the Thames.
Caleb’s had been a difficult leave-taking, both for Richard and for his cousins. But young Joseph had taken it far better than anyone expected. On Thursday, the day that sea superstition decreed was the luckiest day to weigh anchor, Joseph did for Richard what he had done when saying good-bye to Caleb. On that warm, humid morning he stepped up on his own, without having to be coaxed by his parents, and offered his hand to Richard. His grip was both warm and steady. “Farewell, Uncle,” he said, his lower lip trembling only slightly. “Godspeed. Thank you for all you have done for me.”
“Thank you for what you have done for me, Joseph. I’ll see you again soon, either here or in Hingham.”
He repeated those same words to Seth, Mary, and Benjamin before taking Peter’s tiny hand in his own. He grinned down at the tot, who replied with an expression that could have passed for either scorn or utter boredom.
“Bless you,” Cynthia said to Richard. “Bless you and Caleb both.” She could say no more. Emotion clogged her throat.
“My love to Katherine and your family, dear Richard,” Julia managed during a fleeting embrace. “Although I know you won’t be seeing them right away.”
Richard nodded at John before boarding a waiting carriage. Then he was gone, his destination His Majesty’s dockyard in Bridgetown.
“WE’VE RAISED Marie-Galante, sir,” Isaac Hull informed his captain after the officer of the watch had informed the first lieutenant.
“Where away?” Silas Talbot demanded. He had heard the cry from aloft and now scanned a clear horizon.
“Broad on the loo’ard bow, sir.”
Spyglasses shifted to an area of water four points to larboard of the course Constitution was following. That her officers could see no evidence of the sixty-one-square-mile island that Christopher Columbus had named in honor of his flagship came as no surprise. As the ship’s master had informed them that first evening when Richard Cutler had dined on board, the highest peak on the island of Marie-Galante rose a mere 670 feet above sea level. John Davenport, the ship’s master, had gone on to explain, much to the officers’ amusement, that the island was so flat and round that the French referred to it as la grande galette, or “the big pancake.”
“Steer northwest by west, a half west,” Talbot ordered the quartermaster’s mates at the double wheel. “We’ll approach by night.”
“Northwest by west, a half west, aye, aye, sir,” the senior helmsman replied.
Richard Cutler, stationed by the mizzen, set his glass off the frigate’s larboard quarter, to where the vessel Nancy veered northwestward on a parallel course. She was a substantial sharp-lined, low-freeboard brigantine with square sails on her foremast and a large fore-and-aft sail on her mainmast, but next to Constitution she looked like a ship’s boat. On her driver gaff fluttered the Stars and Stripes, somewhat deceptively. True, she was an American ship, built and owned, but she was an American vessel known to be trading in contraband with the French. Constitution had come upon her unexpectedly the previous day and had given chase. A warning shot fired across her bow persuaded her master to stop running and lie to. Her crew was rowed over to Constitution and her master strong-armed aft to Captain Talbot, who, after a word with him, dispatched them all below to the brig. Lieutenant Crabtree had taken command of Nancy, along with a skeleton crew of eight sailors and seven Marines. His first orders had been to jettison the vessel’s cargo of rice and salted fish and hose down the hold.
“Gentlemen,” Talbot had enthused before his officers the evening before, “Providence has smiled on us most kindly. Most kindly,” he repeated.
Assembled before him in the after cabin were two of the ship’s lieutenants, the ship’s master, the captain of her Marine contingent, and eight midshipmen. They stood at attention before his desk, waiting for their captain to explain himself. When he took his time doing so, the burly captain of Marines offered a tentative, “Sir?”
Talbot smiled in mock astonishment. “Why, Mr. Carmick, I am surprised at you. I would have thought a man of your intellect and intuitions would have already guessed my intentions.”
“Sorry, sir,” Daniel Carmick fumbled. He smoothed his handlebar mustache with a nervous motion and glanced sideways at his fellow officers. They all stared stoically ahead; no one was willing to come to his rescue. “I’m afraid you have me on this one.”
“Do I indeed?” Talbot’s gaze took in his audience. “You young gentlemen there,” he said at length. “A show of hands if you please. How many of you have studied Virgil’s Aeneid? Come my good lads. Be not shy. I am not your schoolmaster. I shan’t require you to recite lines of Latin.”
The midshipmen tittered nervously. Three raised a hand halfway.
“Good. We’re finally getting somewhere. Now who among you three can summarize for me the story of the Trojan horse?”
The senior officers exchanged quick, muddled glances as seven of the eight midshipmen looked to Roger Jeffrey, at seventeen the senior mid on board ship and the best educated of her junior officers.
“Mr. Jeffrey,” Talbot said with a trace of a grin, “it seems the honor of reply has fallen to you.”
Jeffrey cleared his throat. “Well, sir,” he said in a voice searching for confidence and clarity, “the story takes place during the Trojan War. The Greeks were not able to defeat the Trojans in the field, nor could they take Troy by siege. So they pretended to give up the siege and sail home to Greece. Befo
re they left, they offered the Trojans a huge wooden horse they had built as a tribute to their bravery. But it was not really a gift, sir. It was a ruse. Greek soldiers were hiding inside the horse when the Trojans came out to accept the gift and wheel it through the city gates. That night, as Troy slept, the soldiers hidden inside shimmied down to the ground on ropes. They opened the gates to the Greek army, which in fact had not sailed away, and put every Trojan man, woman, and child to the sword.”
“Well done, Mr. Jeffrey. Remind me to put in a good word with your tutor. And so, gentlemen,” he exclaimed to the room at large. “What conclusions might we draw from Mr. Jeffrey’s excellent summation? What inspiration?”
Men and boys continued to stare rigidly ahead.
“Ah, well,” Talbot sighed, “it appears that once again I am forced to explain the pathetically obvious.” He was not angry. He was, in fact, having a merry time of it, which only added to his officers’ general sense of bemusement. They had experienced their captain’s quirky behavior before, but never to this extent.
Talbot rose to his feet and walked over to a larboard gun. “That brigantine,” he said, pointing through the open port to where they could see Nancy sailing close by in the golden haze of the late afternoon sun, “is our Trojan horse. She will take us into the heart of Troy, with Greeks hidden in her hold. Do you not yet see where I am going with this? ... Ah, Mr. Hull, I see that the light of day is beginning to dawn on you. On you as well, Mr. Cutler. By God, you are all basking in the glow now. Gather ’round, gentlemen, and listen to my plan.”
A LESS RISKY PLAN, Talbot was first to admit, would have had Constitution standing off the island of Marie-Galante until they could determine exactly who and what awaited them in the harbor of Grand-Bourg. And that they could have done by sending ashore a covert scouting expedition. But such an initiative would require time, and time was a luxury the Americans did not have. Constitution was recognizable even to a lubber as a likely enemy. As for the brigantine, her master had confessed to Silas Talbot that he was on his way to Grand-Bourg and was expected there. Arriving in company with an enemy frigate would raise the reddest of red flags on the island.
According to charts and to British intelligence, access to Grand-Bourg was restricted to a route approximately two cable lengths wide that snaked through a labyrinth of shoals and coral reefs stretching from an area approximately a mile offshore to a cut between two promontories onshore. On the stubbier of the two promontories stood an old stone fort that guarded the narrow entryway to the wide, oval harbor. Although bright yellow buoys marked the route, a night passage was not recommended. Better to wait for daylight when leadsmen stationed on the chain-wales could see the seabed eight fathoms down and the ship’s master did not have to rely on buoys that could have shifted position during a hard blow.
At four o’clock the next morning, all hands were on deck. The sea was calm. Constitution was rigged for night sailing and was making modest headway in light, fluky winds. Alongside her, Nancy kept pace under jib, foremast topsail, and mainmast fore-and-aft sail. Eastward, the first intimations of day had softened the black gloom of night and were giving distinct form to the horizon. Just over that horizon lay the island of Marie-Galante.
At a prearranged signal of flashing lanterns, both vessels hove to.
“I daren’t go in any closer, Mr. Hull,” Talbot informed his first lieutenant, who was standing at attention by the mizzenmast. “It’s time.”
Hull saluted. “I understand, sir.”
Talbot returned the salute. “Good luck, Mr. Hull. I shall come for you at noon, as prescribed.”
“We’ll be there, sir.”
Hull again saluted before turning to the boatswain. “Lower away the boats, Mr. Nichols. You may begin the transfer. Handsomely, now. And quietly.” That last command was issued more by instinct than necessity. Nowhere in sight was there a black shape that would define another vessel under sail.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Nichols replied softly.
Twenty-three Marines dressed in ordinary garb went over the side to join the seven Marines already on board Nancy. The twenty-five Marines still on board Constitution began handing down an arsenal of pistols, muskets, powder, shot, and grenades into the two whaleboats.
Next off, into a longboat, went a hand-picked auxiliary crew of seamen, along with the senior midshipman, a carpenter’s mate, a quartermaster’s mate, and a boatswain’s mate. Last off were two senior lieutenants and the former master of the brigantine, a suddenly contrite, bald-headed man named Phillips.
“Good luck,” Lieutenant Hamilton said as Richard gripped the twin hand ropes leading down to the ship’s boat bobbing alongside. “I wish I were going with you.”
Richard nodded in sympathy. “Understood, Robert, but you’re needed here,” he said truthfully yet lamely. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
On board Nancy, Richard took up position beside Agreen at the helm. On deck with them, twelve able-rated sailors dressed in nondescript slop-chest clothing made ready to get under way. The others huddled belowdecks, save for Isaac Hull and Daniel Carmick, who joined the two lieutenants astern. Hull gave Richard a nod, confirming that everything below was secure. Astern, Constitution remained hove to, the lanterns on her weather deck gleaming ever less distinctly as her three boats were hoisted back on board and Nancy sliced through water stirred to life by a freshening northeasterly breeze. The breeze seemed a good omen. Rarely did the wind in the Indies pick up this early in the morning.
“Relief from the helm, Mr. Crabtree?” Hull asked. “You’ve been at it all night. Orrick here,” referring to the quartermaster’s mate, “can take over for now. If this wind holds, we have a good two hours before you need bring her in. A little sleep might do you some good.”
“Thank you, sir,” Agreen replied. “I’ll stay here, if you don’t object.”
Hull did not object. There was no man that he or anyone else on board the brigantine would rather see at the helm under these circumstances than Agreen Crabtree. “Then you will be pleased to note,” Hull said, “that I have requested the galley fire lit and a light breakfast brought up to us.” He added in a weak stab at a devil-may-care attitude, “Let’s hope the coffee is up to French standards.”
Conversation was spotty as Nancy sailed eastward. There was little to say beyond what had been said the day before. Each man understood his assignment, and each man standing on deck or crouched below in the hold had now to cope in his own way with the conflicting inner emotions that well up to near bursting when battle is nigh. For most of them, it was not the uncertainty of what lay ahead that they feared, or even the danger. It was the killing. More precisely, how the killing would have to be done. It is one thing to butcher a man two hundred yards away as the result of round shot crashing through an enemy bulwark. It is quite another to kill a man face to face, your sword ripping into his belly, his eyes bulging in unspeakable pain as the steel blade slices through intestines and vital organs, the panic of imminent death silently screaming from a mouth agape, the sudden foul stench as his bowels give way to abject terror. And that assumes that you are the one doing the killing.
“Deck, there!” a lookout cried from high up the forecourse yardarm.
“Deck, aye!”
“It’s the fort, sir, dead ahead!”
Hull raised an arm in acknowledgment. He turned to the helm. “Well done, Mr. Crabtree. Spot on target, as usual.”
He and Richard strode forward to the bow. Twenty minutes later, through a long glass, they could see the tricolor of revolutionary France fluttering from atop the single turret. Richard glanced aloft. Although the square sails on the brigantine’s foremast were furled, she was making good headway on a close haul under the mainmast driver and an array of staysails and jib. Richard estimated the wind at eight knots from the northeast. It would remain so, he surmised, right to the entrance of the harbor.
Gradually the fort assumed a distinct shape. Soon they were close enough in to observe
the bright yellow buoys dancing atop the waves. Even at this close distance Richard could see little on the island beyond the fort and the beaches and mangroves fringing its shoreline. Marie-Galante was as flat and treeless as any island of his acquaintance, and he found himself wondering how the island’s east coast, be it anything like this, could withstand the onslaught of one of the late-summer Atlantic gales.
“Shall we reduce sail and take her in under reefed driver and jib?” Richard ventured when Hull seemed distracted by what he was observing or thinking.
Hull caught himself. “Yes, Mr. Cutler. See to it, if you will. And my compliments to Captain Carmick and would he please bring Mr. Phillips up here under guard.”
Richard touched his civilian-style tricorne hat and departed. Although equal in rank to Isaac Hull, Hull had seniority over Richard by virtue of Silas Talbot having seniority over Thomas Truxtun on the captain’s list. More to the point, Silas Talbot had given explicit command of this mission to his first lieutenant.
Moments later a Marine corporal directed Seymour Phillips amidships where the officers had gathered. It was hard not to feel a pang of pity for the man, whatever his alleged misdeeds. He slouched before them, staring down at the deck and shaking his bald head, muttering something incomprehensible. Playacting? If so, Richard concluded, he was one convincing actor.
“Mr. Phillips?” Hull intoned.
Phillips looked up with round, hollow eyes. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I want to review with you again the acknowledgment signal for entering Grand-Bourg. I need not remind you that the corporal here has strict orders to keep a close eye on you. That is his sole responsibility until we are back on board Constitution. Cross us, and he will blow your brains across this deck.”
The Power and the Glory Page 26