“We owe Captain Hardcastle a great debt for securing these guns for us,” Truxtun said, adding, with a touch of pride, “Constellation is the first ship in the U.S. Navy to carry them. Though I doubt she will be for long. Once Captain Talbot gets wind of this, he’ll demand the same for Constitution. And if history is any judge, Stoddert will find a way to give him what he wants.”
Richard understood the bitterness in his voice. During Constellation’s refitting in Portsmouth, Truxtun had traveled north to New Jersey to visit his family. There, out of the blue, a letter from Benjamin Stoddert had informed him that the Navy Department had officially awarded Silas Talbot seniority over him. It was an issue that had been hotly contested for more than two years, and its resolution had infuriated Truxtun, who felt compelled to resign his commission. What had happened next was somewhat vague. Truxtun refused to talk about it, and each officer harbored personal opinions that in the aggregate only served to muddle the facts. What was clear was that both John Adams and George Washington had intervened in the drama, the former president by inviting Truxtun to Mount Vernon to appeal to Truxtun’s patriotism and sense of duty, and the current president by venturing to Perth Amboy to present his most accomplished sea officer with the gold medal awarded him by Congress and to convince him not to quit the service. Truxtun had agreed to withdraw his resignation on the condition that he never be placed in a position where he would have to report to Talbot. Stoddert readily agreed and Truxtun reported back for duty in Constellation, finally setting sail for Saint Kitts six weeks behind schedule.
“Think we’ll have occasion to use these guns, sir?” Richard asked to steer their conversation away from dangerous waters. The open feud between Talbot and Truxtun had been a trial for him, for he held both naval commanders in the highest personal and professional esteem. “This war shouldn’t last much longer. Our envoys have been in Paris for a number of weeks. Perhaps terms of a treaty have already been worked out.”
“Perhaps. But until we’re at peace, we remain at war. When peace does come—and I agree that it will come shortly, there is no need to drag out his affair—it’s home for us again, this time on a more permanent basis. You will be leaving the service then, Mr. Cutler?”
“That’s my intention, sir. And I shall do so with great regret. I will miss the Navy more than I thought possible.”
Truxtun nodded sympathetically. “I understand,” he said. “The Navy has a way of growing on you, doesn’t it? It’s why I decided to return to service rather than retire, as logic and justice dictated I should. And since you feel the same as I do, why not do the same and stay in the service? The Navy needs officers of your caliber.”
Richard shook his head slowly. “I have considered that, sir, assuming there’s a place for me in a peacetime Navy. And I would do it under different circumstances. But I find it hard to be separated from my family for such long periods. I have a young daughter who needs her father at home. My wife tells me that our younger son, Jamie, is anxious to follow in my footsteps and join the Navy. So he may be leaving home soon. And I cannot disappoint my father. He has high hopes for me in Cutler & Sons.”
“I cannot speak for your father, Mr. Cutler, but I can speak for Secretary Stoddert. Should you decide to remain in the Navy, you need not be separated from your family. I have it on good authority that Stoddert is about to introduce the Royal Navy practice of allowing certain qualified officers to remain in the service on half pay during peacetime. You’d be on furlough—on the beach, so to speak, and a Hingham beach at that—but you would remain a commissioned officer who would return to duty if and when another war threatens. I’d be delighted to recommend your name for that list, if you’d like me to.”
“I would like you to, sir,” Richard replied without hesitation, “and I would be honored if you would.” He could not resist a smile.
Truxtun smiled as well. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you, sir.” After a pause, Richard returned to the subject of the carronades. “I suppose, then, that the prospect of peace means we shall not have occasion to see these ‘devil guns’ in action.”
“To the contrary, Mr. Cutler, I believe we will. And soon.”
“Soon, sir?”
Truxtun nodded. “Quite soon. The Royal Navy may not have many ships left in the Indies, but they still have a vast network of spies. And British spies on Guadeloupe report that a French frigate has put in to Basse-Terre to take on passengers and provisions. They report she’s planning to depart for France within a fortnight. When sighted, she was sailing in the company of a 28-gun corvette. I was informed of this not thirty minutes ago in a note sent over from Concorde by Captain Sweeney.”
“If she’s a frigate, sir, she must be La Vengeance.”
La Vengeance was a frigate of 54 guns, the largest and by all accounts the last French naval vessel of consequence in the French West Indies. For three weeks Constellation had scoured the waters and recesses of the Lesser Antilles in search of this ship as an angler might stalk a monster fish rumored to inhabit a lake. They hadn’t found her, but the cruise had provided ample opportunities to drill the men hard at the new 18-pounder guns that had replaced the 24-pounder long guns on the gun deck to better stabilize the frigate and make her less top-heavy.
“The British have confirmed that indeed she is La Vengeance. And if her captain intends to flee the Indies, I intend to stop him. Please advise Boatswain Bowles that we sail tomorrow with the tide at six bells in the afternoon watch. And advise him to see these ladies off—graciously, mind you, but off—and to recall everyone on shore leave. As of midnight tonight, Mr. Cutler, Constellation is a ship in discipline.”
AT DAWN ON FEBRUARY 1, on the third day at sea, Constellation sighted a ship sailing far out in the Atlantic. At that distance even the most keen-eyed lookout could distinguish only that she was ship-rigged.
Richard was standing by the taffrail, squinting astern through a long glass. “Run up the English colors,” he ordered James Jarvis, the junior officer of the watch. “And please inform Captain Truxtun that his presence is requested on deck. Walk, if you please, Mr. Jarvis,” he called after him when the young midshipman scampered off in a young mid’s eagerness to obey a command.
“Aye, aye, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Richard next addressed the boatswain and master’s mates at the helm: “Prepare to wear ship.”
As the signal midshipman retrieved the British ensign from the flag locker and made ready to hoist away, James Jarvis went below to report to the captain. In short order, Truxtun appeared on deck in full undress uniform, save for his cocked hat.
“Good morning, Mr. Cutler,” he greeted his first lieutenant. “Mr. Jarvis informs me that we have sighted a ship.”
“Good morning, Captain. Yes, sir, we have. She’s to the southeast, following a northerly course. On the chance she’s English, I have ordered the British ensign raised. We are standing by to wear ship. I am assuming you want to give chase.”
“What is our present position and course?”
“Antigua is ahead to larboard, sir. Barbuda is to starboard. Our course is northwest by north.”
“Very well, Mr. Cutler. If she is British she’ll respond quickly enough. You may wear around and calculate a course of interception.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Richard stepped forward and brought a speaking trumpet to his lips. “All hands! Stations for wearing ship! Man clewgar-nets and buntlines! Spanker mainsail brails! Weather main, lee crossjack braces! Handsomely there, you men!” Instantly his orders were piped through the ship.
The helmsmen at the big double wheel coaxed Constellation off the wind until it came from dead astern. Sailors stationed aft and amidships brailed up her spanker and mainsail to allow the other sails on the main and mizzen to be all in the wind. With afteryards braced up sharp for the new tack and foreyards squared, headsheets were shifted over and foresails braced around to catch the wind and help turn the ship’s stern through it, just as the mainsail wa
s reset and the spanker hauled out. Within minutes, Constellation was turned about on a reciprocal course and sailing full and by, with her foreyards braced up and her weather bowlines hauled taut.
Approximately fifteen miles separated the two ships. Although Constellation was now on a course of interception, the other ship was following an oblique course relative to the American, which meant that several hours would pass before the other ship could be positively identified. If she maintained her present course for all that time.
Which she did not.
“Deck, there!” the lookout in the foremast cried down some time later.
“Deck, aye!” Harry Ayres, stationed at the base of the foremast, acknowledged. “What is it, Laird?”
“She’s coming about, sir! She means to show us her heels!”
Ayres quick-stepped aft.
“Thank you, Mr. Ayres,” Thomas Truxtun said when the midshipman had made his report. Immediately he issued the order for Constellation to come off the wind in pursuit. “You may return to station.” He rubbed his chin. “What do you make of it, Mr. Cutler?”
Richard replied slowly, thoughtfully, as if seeking to convince himself as well as his captain. “She can’t know our identity, sir, any better than we can know hers. By now she should have spotted the British recognition signal. If so, we may conclude she’s not British. If she were, she would not turn and run once she realized we were giving chase. She would either maintain her course or turn to come straight at us. Were she a neutral ship, Dutch or Swedish, perhaps, why would she run? In any event, we know that this vessel is ship-rigged and of considerable size, a ship of war by anyone’s bet. The Dutch and Swedes don’t have vessels of such size in the Indies. And Spanish frigates are long gone from these waters. That leaves only one conclusion.”
“Mr. Sterrett?”
“I agree with Mr. Cutler, sir,” the second lieutenant replied. “She showed her colors the instant she came about.”
“We must assume, then, that she’s French. And if she’s French, she’s La Vengeance. By God, gentlemen, I think we’ve found our quarry!”
“Yes, sir,” Richard said, the thrill of the chase upon him. “Her captain must have decided that since he can’t outrun us, his best bet is to try to make it back to Guadeloupe. Perhaps he has important passengers on board who have no stomach for a fight.”
“That could very well be the case, Mr. Cutler. Now hear this: I want every inch of canvas clapped on, including stunsails. Have the yards slung with chains and the ship cleared for action.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
With the extra press of sails, Constellation surged ahead on a larboard tack heading south-southeast. The other ship pursued a course to the south-southwest, back toward the southern reaches of the Lesser Antilles. Guadeloupe lay perhaps twenty miles over the horizon. If reaching the safety of that island were her strategy, the tactical question, for those on board both ships, was whether or not the mathematics of pursuit would allow the pursuer to cut off the pursued.
As the chase continued through the morning and into the early afternoon, the distance between the two ships narrowed. Just as the hull of the other ship was rising up to the south, the wind shifted and turned fluky. The massive sails of the American frigate luffed, filled, and luffed again, as though living beings gasping for air. Helmsmen struggled to keep Constellation on course in what was quickly becoming a game of catch-as-catch-can with the wind.
Truxtun remained undeterred. “We’ll work this to our advantage,” he stated optimistically to his officers. “We’re the lighter of the two vessels and we have a copper bottom. I doubt that ship does—most French ships do not—so in this light wind the growth on her bottom should slow her down. It may take longer to catch her, but catch her we will. It’s just a matter of time.”
Time they had, and plenty of it during the long hours of sluggish pursuit, to weigh the consequences of actually running down their quarry. Every officer on board Constellation was keenly aware that La Vengeance was a heavily armed ship; 18-pounders on her gun deck, 12-pounders on her weather deck: fifty-four guns total. By comparison, Constellation carried twenty-eight 18-pounders on her gun deck and ten 24-pounder carronades on her weather deck. Richard had done the math, as had even the lowest-ranking petty officer. A full broadside from La Vengeance carried 582 pounds of hot metal; a broadside from Constellation only 372 pounds. In other words, the French had a 50 percent advantage in weight of broadside. And if La Vengeance did manage to come within sight of the naval base at Basse-Terre, the French corvette, were she still there, would surely sail out to add her twenty-eight guns to the balance.
In early evening, as the breeze freshened and the distance between the two ships continued to narrow, Truxtun ordered the British ensign hauled down, the American ensign hauled up, and battle lanterns lit. “And you may run out the guns, Mr. Cutler,” he said. “Both sides.”
“Shall we reduce sail, sir?”
“Not until it’s absolutely necessary. Have the men stand by to brail up the courses.”
Richard relayed the order to Midn. David Porter, acting as aide-de-camp, who relayed it below to Lieutenant Sterrett and the gun captains.
Night was settling over a black sea framed by a bright starlit sky and a half-moon lying low to the west. On board Constellation there was no need to beat to quarters. Men had been at battle stations for nearly twelve hours, had eaten an early supper next to the guns, and had taken rest in rotation on the gun deck. Three hundred yards ahead, La Vengeance —her name encrypted in gilt lettering beneath the tinted glass of her heavily decorated stern gallery—sailed on toward Guadeloupe as though oblivious to the American frigate creeping up on her from astern.
At nine o’clock, as the quartermaster of the watch sounded two bells and Constellation approached to within hailing distance, Truxtun strode forward to the forecastle and brought a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Ahoy, La Vengeance!” he shouted out. “This is USS Constellation. I order you to haul down your colors and surrender to the United States of America!”
Every man on the American frigate stood by at attention, ears primed for a response that was not forthcoming. Save for creaks in her block and tackle and the whisper of wind ghosting through her top-hamper, silence reigned on Constellation.
“Ahoy, La Vengeance!” Truxtun tried a second time. “Surrender or I shall fire into you!”
When his demands were once again met with silence, Truxtun walked aft to the helm. “Let the log reflect that I gave her fair warning,” he said blithely. “Have the courses brailed up, Mr. Cutler. Mr. Waverly, bring her up a point.”
Before Truxtun finished speaking, two tongues of orange lashed out from the stern ports of the French frigate. Balls of hot iron howled through the air, screaming ever louder as they approached until the air above was rent by the rip of canvas not far from the maintop where James Carter had stationed his Marines. Their trajectories expended, the two balls plunged into the dark ocean astern.
“Bring her up another point,” Truxtun said calmly to Waverly. “Starboard guns may fire when ready.”
Midshipman Porter relayed the order to the gun deck. Sterrett acknowledged and passed word to Lieutenant Dent stationed aft. Constellation edged up closer to La Vengeance, her bowsprit now drawing even with the Frenchman’s larboard quarter, her aft guns handspiked as far forward as possible.
“Fire!” Sterrett’s order was repeated down the line. Fourteen guns erupted at five-second intervals. Most were aimed level at the hull of the French ship, visible a hundred yards distant beyond the close-quarter flashes of yellow, white, and orange. Round shot and double shot smashed into the Frenchman’s bulwarks, splintering them. Spears of jagged wood rocketed through the air and across her deck, impaling flesh and tearing into vital organs. From above, in Constellation’s fighting tops, Marines at the swivel guns rained canisters of grape onto the Frenchman’s deck. The barrage was reinforced by a rain of musketry fired from the tops and from behind walls o
f hammocks stuffed into netting along the weather railing.
Not every long gun was aimed level. Some were aimed high. One shot scored a direct hit on the enemy main-topmast, which shattered and toppled over like a twig in a child’s hand, taking with it a jumble of topsail, royal, and mizzen staysails.
La Vengeance answered. True to her name, she came up on a starboard tack and launched a broadside of her own, concentrating fire on her enemy’s top-hamper. Constellation’s lower mainmast took a glancing blow that nonetheless punched out a sizable chunk of wood, exposing an ugly gash of white Virginia pine. On her lower mainmast shrouds, a breast backstay parted beneath its outrigger. Nearby, a sailor climbing to the crosstrees cried out. For what must have been a terrifying wisp of time, he gaped down at his left leg blown clean off before letting go the shrouds and ratlines and tumbling below to the deck. Blood spurted from the red jelly mass of the stump like some gruesome water pump before a quick-thinking waister rushed out to seize the deformed body and drag it against the larboard bulwarks.
“Fire as they bear!” Truxtun shouted out. “Mr. Waverly, maintain a parallel course! Range up on her quarter!”
For another hour, and an hour after that, the two great frigates battled it out, strength of broadside against strength of broadside, lighting up and roiling the short span of Atlantic separating them. It was as though two great armies had come together on the field to pound each other unmercifully until one side had taken all it could take and was forced to stand down. The French boasted superiority of guns, the Americans superiority of drill. For every broadside La Vengeance managed to get off, Constellation answered with two, evening the odds, then with three, giving her the edge, over time, in shipboard structures and skeletal frames and gun mounts ravaged, dismantled, or blown apart.
The Power and the Glory Page 29