Our powder monkey had returned. “Lieutenant Cutler says we kin go ahead an’ fire whenever you’re ready, Mister Baldwin. Long as Gunner Tarbox is here.” He tugged on a piece of hair hanging from the front of his hat by way of a salute.
“Sail handlers to stations for shortening sail! Topmen aloft!” The cry came through the gundeck. And about half of my men summarily left their posts at the guns, joining others in the dash for the spar deck. I was suddenly quite confused. How was I to fire my guns, for which permission had just been granted, when the quarterdeck took my sailors to shorten sail? I looked at Tarbox and Bradford.
“Usual part of firn’, sir. Got to shorten the barky down so’s the cap’n got better control over her. They’ll be furlin’ courses and royals quick as ever they can. Leave her with a spanker, tops’ls, and a jib. Called ‘battle sail’ it is. When we’s actually fightin’ the brig, it helps not havin’ all that sail aloft. Keeps it from catchin’ fire as well.” The gunner explained in a voice loud enough for the whole forward end of the gundeck to hear. “I reckon Mister Cutler wanted everyone mannin’ the guns first so’s they’ll get used to runnin’ up yonder and then back. Generally though, we’ll shorten down afore we’re ready to fire, soon as they beat to quarters. The men what ain’t needed to handle the sails would make the guns ready, just like you seen here.”
I could feel Argus slowing down as the ponderous press of canvas aloft was reduced. From the sound of the feet over our heads, the task was completed with less confusion than accompanied its earlier setting. They —and I—were learning our jobs, and only one day out!
I listened attentively while Tarbox and Bradford discussed our firing. The gunner impressed upon all three of my gun captains that this “drill is just to get the men familiar with the firing itself. Ain’t trying to hit nothin.’ That’ll be for the next time, likely tomorrow, dependin’ on the cap’n’s mind.” And then the sail handlers and topmen returned and we once again took our stations.
“Mister Baldwin, when you’re quite ready, if you please!” Cutler’s voice floated down the ladder from the spar deck. 1, in turn, quite unnecessarily, after receiving a nod from Tarbox, responded.
“Aye, aye, sir!” I shouted back, quite pleased with my quick and seamanlike answer. More quietly, though I suspect that in my excitement it may have been a good deal louder than was necessary, and with an unspeakably dry mouth, I cried to Bradford, standing by the forward-most gun, “FIRE!”
Gunner Tarbox spoke softly (for him). “Sir, we ain’t loaded ‘em yet nor run ‘em out. Better to do that first then order ‘em fired!”
“Load, Bradford, and run ‘em out,” said I, hoping my face was not as flushed as it felt. Fortunately, the men were now busy and none looked my way, though Perkins, or Parker or whatever the second gun’s captain called himself, did smirk as he also began to oversee the loading of his gun. I couldn’t let it bother me as, consumed with fascination, I watched Bradford’s crew perform the slow dance of loading a twenty-four-pounder carronade, knowing that with each successive time, the dance would become faster.
One man, called a sponger, picked up a flannel bag containing the powder and jammed it into the breech—the open end—of the gun, forcing it all the way down with a rammer. Bradford called out, “Home!” indicating it was all the way in as he felt it touch his priming iron. Immediately another sailor picked up one the twenty-four-pound iron balls and pushed it into the yawning muzzle, where it disappeared to join the powder cartridge. The sponger shoved his rammer in behind the ball. When he withdrew it, the same man who had loaded the shot pushed a wad down to be rammed home on top of the ball.
On Bradford’s command, four men on each side of the big gun clapped onto the side tackles and heaved around, hauling the gun into the bulwark so that the muzzle stuck out the side of the ship through the open gunport. Immediately he poked his priming iron into the hole atop the carronade’s barrel to puncture the cartridge and poured a careful measure of black powder into the touch hole and the pan.
“Ready, sir!” Bradford held the smoking linstock before him and blew gently on it, causing the slow match it held to glow a bright orange. Then he looked at me for the order to fire, which command I gave quickly and, this time, properly.
I watched as he blew once more on the match and then touched the brightly glowing brand to the powder in the carronade’s pan. The powder sputtered and smoked and, in less than a heartbeat, had burned down to the cartridge.
BOOOM! The gun fired with a thunderclap, shooting a yard and more of flame and a cloud of choking lavender-tinged smoke out the end of the barrel. Instantly, the massive gun bucked back in recoil so quickly that all I saw was a blur. Then the barrel and its slide came to rest against the breeching tackle, ready to be sponged and reloaded. Even though I had known that the gun was going to fire—had not I myself given the order?—I was unprepared for the deafening roar it had let out. The only sound I could hear was the ringing in my own head! 1 could see the men gesturing and knew they were shouting, but it was quite beyond my ability to make out a word of what was said. Seeing Parsons blowing on his slow match, I covered my ears in anticipation of the next onslaught.
BOOOM! BOOOM! Both guns fired and jumped back in quick succession. This time 1 was ready. While my head still rang, it seemed that the bellow from these two was less painful to my poor ears, protected as they were behind my hands. The cloud of smoke generated by all three of the guns’ firing blew back upon us, tearing our eyes and obscuring our vision. My mouth tasted like sulfur as I breathed in the choking fumes.
Then there was silence; profound silence. I looked questioningly at the gunner and shook my head to stop the din within. My question to him about the intensity of the noise had likely been expressed with more force than I had intended, but his answer, spoken in his booming voice, penetrated to my brain quite easily.
I could see that many of the men, the landsmen, were quite as confounded as I at the tumult we had created. Then Bradford and his colleagues were shouting orders and pushing their sailors this way and that in an effort to prepare the guns to be fired again.
I shot a glance at Wheatley’s battery to see if he was ready to fire. He was not. Indeed, it appeared that one of his men had dropped an iron ball. Since we were firing from the windward, or high, side, Mister Newton’s laws of gravity prevailed, and the shot rolled across the deck with two of his sailors in pursuit. They were encouraged by Tom’s frenzied shouts. Gunner Tarbox, a grim look of determination on his face, left my battery with the admonition to “Be careful, sir. And try ‘er again, slow-like.” He headed to the next three carronades aft which belonged to my thoroughly agitated messmate.
BOOM! From overheard I heard the roar of the forward twelve-pounder. I recalled it, and the one aft, were under the command (if such a lofty word could be used) of our star-crossed, suffering young mid, James Stevens. The sound of the cannon’s wheels rolling back in recoil directly over our heads caused some of our men to duck involuntarily, myself included. It sounded like thunder, the worst and most ferocious thunder I had ever heard. But, in my joy that James’ gun was ready and had fired before Tom’s were even loaded, I quite dismissed the noise and looked again at Tom’s three charges still at the limits of their breechings. Both Wheatley and Gunner Tarbox were red in the face. The men I took to be the gun captains were exhorting in chorus their men to “get them damn charges rammed home, you damn lubbers!”
And so the afternoon went. Of course, all the guns were fired, most several times, even Wheatley’s. I knew from my books that these guns, despite their girth and weight of metal, could fire a ball barely one thousand yards. I had tried in vain to view the fall of our shot, but with my sight restricted to only that provided by the gunport, I was unable to catch a single one.
Midway through the exercise, when we had loaded, fired, sponged and reloaded some four or five times, there came a bellow which turned quickly into a scream of agony from my aftermost carronade. I had been standing
forward of Bradford’s gun and shouting into the gun captain’s ear when gun three fired and the bellowing began. One of Parker’s sailors, a man assigned to the side tackles, had been too eager in his employment. When the monster fired and bucked into recoil, his foot had been all but severed as the one-ton slide-mounted carriage rolled over it. Blood squirted from the wound in a pulsating fountain of crimson as some of his mates dragged him clear, and the screaming continued.
Lieutenant Hobbs, who happened to be nearby, ran to the stricken sailor. He grabbed the man’s handkerchief from around his neck and tied it quickly and expertly over the gushing foot. The sailor was carried below to the hospital, his screams diminishing both from his increasing weakness and the increasing distance between us. I remained rooted to the deck, transfixed by the spectacle, and stared at the glistening pool of gore that remained on the deck and gun slide.
“Usually only happens first time they’re fired, Mister Baldwin. Less’n someone gets too eager. Reckon that fellow’s not going to get in the way again, if he don’t lose that foot, or bleed to death.” Hobbs had spoken to me calmly— quite matter-of-factly, I thought, considering the cruel wound the man had received. “You can continue your firin.’ Give you a chance to work short-handed. And see if you can reload some faster. A crack crew should be able to fire three times in five minutes.” Our second lieutenant then turned and moved away to observe us.
I was not sure, barring another accident, why I would ever have to fire ‘short-handed’ as he put it and doubted our ability to meet the goal of ‘three times in five minutes.’ I said as much to Parker.
“You gots to remember, sir, most times they’s gonna be someone shootin’ back. And here’s where they aim; the guns and the top hamper to take the rig down, us, too. And rare it is when both vessels don’t suffer terrible losses of men and guns. And when they’s folks shootin’ back at us, it sure makes the lads want to get her loaded quick as ever they can. You can be sure of that!” Parker’s tone was patient, but his eyes were focused on his task, that of rearranging his men to make up for, not only the wounded one, but the two who had carried him below as well.
Here was yet another piece of news that I had never considered. Of course, it seemed completely logical when 1 thought about it, but that didn’t change the fact that this employment might not be as exhilarating as I had imagined! I thought he was likely right about the inspiration provided by another ship’s return fire.
By suppertime, we were done. The guns had been swabbed out for the last time, their side tackles hauled taut so their muzzles, tompions securely in place, were snug against the bulwark, and the gunports closed tightly. We were all, officers, midshipmen, and seamen, exhausted. Even the normally animated queue for grog was subdued as the men filed by the cask to receive their due, well earned this day!
As I prowled around the decks, most of what I overheard from the men centered on what had happened to their fellows hurt in the afternoon’s firing. It soon became apparent to me that Carlson, my heaver on gun three whose foot got crushed, was not the only casualty by a long shot. Indeed, I heard talk of other crushed feet, hands mutilated and burned, and one (though I suspect the speaker might have been making more of the hurt than was the case) who was smote blind by an excess of powder in the touch hole. I imagined that the surgeon, a man whose skills were regularly maligned by most, would be hard pressed to breast the steady flow of injured arriving at his hospital, which I later discovered was the mess table in the cockpit. I heard precious little of the excitement and eagerness that preceded the drills. Even my own, though still smoldering in my breast, was remarkably subdued as I made my way to the quarterdeck to take my watch with Lieutenant Hobbs.
“Well, Mister Baldwin, what say you of our shooting this afternoon? Not quite what you expected, I’d warrant.” Hobbs greeted me as I reported my presence by saluting him and the quarterdeck.
“It was quite ...” I hesitated, not sure of what word might suitably express my excitement, awe, and shock at the power and deafening noise. “... loud, sir. But I believe that our men might be more used to their employment now.” I desperately wanted to report that my crews, at least, had attained the goal Hobbs had set out for me, but in truth, we fired at nearly the same rate at the end of the drill as we had at its beginning. I said as much.
“You more ‘an likely will gain your speed by the time we raise Gibraltar, Baldwin. And o’ course, no matter how fast you are in practice, those lads’ll fire faster than even they thought possible when someone’s shootin’ back at ‘em ! “ He smiled and looked at me over the top of his spectacles. “And we’ll be continuing to exercise at the great guns, as well as small arms and boarding weapons, all the way over. You’ll get your chance. Tomorrow you’ll be tryin’ to hit a target.”
That’s the second time I’ve heard about someone shooting back at us! I thought again about the carnage we inflicted on ourselves and wondered what horrors lay ahead of us when an enemy broadside found its target in our hull.
The brig continued her southeasterly rush, once again under full sail to the t’gallants. And I began to learn the task of the watch officers as Lieutenant Hobbs patiently explained to me about recording our speeds and courses on the slate, trimming the sails to gain the best advantage of the wind, and steering a proper course, or more properly, ensuring the quartermasters handling the big double wheel did. It seemed only a few minutes, rather than two hours, had passed when Lieutenant Morris and Thomas Wheatley appeared to relieve us for our supper. While the two lieutenants discussed the state of the vessel, our course, and other points necessary to a proper watch, Wheatley glared at me from across the quarterdeck, finally stepping close to growl at me.
“Only reason you and your fat friend beat me on the guns today was on account of the imbeciles they give me for my crews. Lieutenant Cutler’s gonna swap around some of the men and I aim to see that I get the best ones. You and your little fat friend better watch yourselves tomorrow, Baldwin! I don’t like bein’ beat at grown-up business by children. It ain’t gonna happen again; you mark my words.”
“Thomas, I don’t think they’ll change anyone, save replacing the ones who got hurt today. I heard you had more than a few who got taken to the hospital. I imagine those are the replacements Lieutenant Cutler must have had in mind.”
“Not on your life, Baldwin. I aim to get that gun captain—what’s his name? Bradford? Aye, he’s the one! Then we’ll see how good your guns look! Tarbox told me he’s the best gun captain in the ship. Seems only right he should be workin’ for me.” Tom stopped growling his threats and stared at me, waiting for a reaction. He wore that smug look that made me angry even when it wasn’t directed at me.
“Mister Baldwin, have you passed on to your relief the information necessary for him to assume the watch?” Lieutenant Hobbs spoke from where he and Lieutenant Morris stood by the wheel.
“No, sir. He has not yet had the time, bein’ busy as he’s been lordin’ it over me on account o’ his guns was faster than mine this afternoon. I am still waitin.’” Wheatley’s voice was smooth and held no rancor; he put his hand on his hip and raised his eyebrows as he returned his eye to mine. A slight smile worked at one corner of his mouth.
“Wha . . . how dare . . . you can’t . . . why do . . .” I sputtered and stammered, rendered speechless by this bald-faced lie. I could barely contain my outrage, but managed to give him the scant essentials to the ship’s condition through clenched teeth. Having done so, I turned and left the quarterdeck. I knew my face was red. I could feel the heat it created as the blood pounded through my head, but this time, it was not because of my own misstep. Lieutenant Hobbs stopped before entering the hatch.
“What was going on there, Baldwin? Is there a problem between you and Wheatley?”
“No, sir. What he said was not . . . that is, I had not given him the information, but not on account of. . . well, I guess I was wrong, sir. I will see that it doesn’t happen again, sir.” There seemed no futur
e in expecting the officers to deal with my problem with Wheatley; we would have to sort it out for ourselves. I decided, with the same resolve I used to get myself out of that unfortunate situation ashore, that I would do so, one way or another.
Supper in the cockpit was quietly pleasant. Judd, James and I enjoyed each other’s stories about the afternoon’s events and, with Thomas on watch topside, there was no rancor. Even James seemed to be feeling better, and his attitude showed marked improvement as a result of his part in the exercise with the great guns. I must confess that I and, I think, the others, took a certain unstated pleasure in the absence of our colleague. Even Riley seemed to be less surly and did not once slam a dish or cup on the table.
I took to my cot early, intending to study some before succumbing to the arms of Orpheus, but quickly fell into a dreamless sleep until I was awakened to assume the watch at midnight.
CHAPTER SIX
On the following day, our exercise at the great guns, as promised, included actually firing at a real target. The carpenter and his mates had cobbled together a sort of raft consisting of barrels and other jetsam that was put overboard. Once the ship, reduced again to her battle sail, had maneuvered into position, we were instructed to “Fire as you bear,” meaning that each gun should shoot when we could train it around to “see” the target. The results were dismal. Both Gunner Tarbox and Lieutenant Hobbs were at their wits’ end trying to combine the elements of speed with accuracy, but by the end of the day, it appeared that only one of the two would be attained. It did not help that the seas were up from the day before. In spite of the skill of the gun captains, timing the discharge of the gun with the roll of the ship and firing quickly seemed quite beyond our grasp. To further confound the gun crews, each battery was expected to fire in sequence and immediately following its predecessor, offering a minimum interval during which we, or rather our sailors, had to sponge, load, run out and train the guns onto the target. After each pass, Captain Decatur wore or tacked Argus around so as to bring the batteries on the opposite side to bear while the gun crews ran across the deck to load, run out, train and fire in sequence.
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