And that is exactly what Mister Hobbs did; Argus fell off, sailing large with the wind blowing over the stern. As she did so, the waves began to come from aft of the beam, first rolling her down so as to dip the mainyard into the sea and later, lifting the stern as they swept down from behind us and rolled on, leaving the brig wallowing momentarily in a trough. Then the next wave would sweep down and the motion would repeat.
“Mister Church, I think preventer braces on the foretops’l yard would be in order.” Decatur bellowed forward and a faint “Aye” acknowledged his instruction.
“There will be a sudden and violent strain on the yard when we cross the wind, Oliver. The preventers the captain just ordered will take up the shock and, with luck, save the yard from breaking or parting its tyes or parrel.” Hobbs, his eyes never leaving the hands amidships who were rigging the preventers, shouted his explanation of the captain’s orders in my direction. “Go and have a look, if you will, and see they’re getting it right. And clap on to the lifeline. We’ll be wearing in a moment.”
A glance at the monstrous waves rolling down on us from astern, their tops foaming white as they crested, then tumbling down into the darkness, quickly overcame my natural reluctance to leave the quarterdeck and the relatively safe haven it offered. Even though I was quite certain that Mister Hobbs was making sport of my insufficient knowledge, here was another opportunity to expand on what Bosun Anderson had already taught me.
I took hold of the safety line and carefully, slowly, made my way to the waist where the men, under Anderson’s supervision, had rigged additional lines to the foretops’l braces and were just now setting them up. The ship, even though alternately lifting her stern then bow to the action of the waves, was drier here than before; seas were not breaking over us and sending great gouts of green water down the deck. I suspected the men welcomed the change.
“READY, SIR!” Church shouted aft and waved his arm, likely unseen by Hobbs. But he had been heard and almost immediately came Hobbs’ voice back, suddenly loud, carried forward by the wind.
“Helm is up. Stand to your braces!” Argus moved slowly to take the seas and the wind on her opposite quarter.
With a great crash, the tops’ls were shifted, their yards braced around, and Argus sailed off before the storm on the other tack. Now all we had to do was headreach to the nor’east. I made my way back to the quarterdeck, noticing the orange cast on the horizon to the east, a harbinger of the new day and, apparently, a continuation of the same devilish weather.
“. . . have the main stays’l set as we bear up. Move smartly; I am loath to make this westering any longer than necessary. We are giving up much of what we gained to the east last night.” Decatur was issuing further orders to Hobbs and Chase, who had somehow beat me back to the quarterdeck.
Orders rang out, carried forward easily by the wind, and men clambered into the rigging to set the stays’l Decatur wanted. The helmsmen, under the guidance of Lieutenant Hobbs, began to ease the bow of the ship closer and closer to the eye of the wind. The nearly exhausted men amidships adjusted our well-reefed canvas and the yards to keep the sails drawing. Argus became, once again, close-hauled on a nor’easterly heading, just as the captain had predicted she would. I learned that this, sailing close-hauled under severely shortened sail in a storm, was headreaching. While not making a great deal of progress forward, we rode more easily, drier, and were in less danger of being overcome by the elements. Had we hove to, we would have made no progress at all, clearly an unacceptable option to our most determined captain.
As the day brightened, and the sky become visible, so also did the seas and the clouds racing across the slate heavens. Great black, puffy clouds they were, with their edges shredded by the gale. Lightning streaked from one to another now, something we had not seen during the night. But the seas in the increasing daylight were even more awful and terrifying to behold.
Huge, towering waves bore down on us from the weather bow, the wind blowing their tops asunder and leaving white trails of spume on the surface of each one. Spray filled the air and stung the eyes. Every so often, a particularly large wave, some looked as high as our main yard, would crash against the wind’ard bow and spend itself, dumping a great deluge of water down the length of our deck. Others would roll us onto our beam-ends, making Argus stagger and shake herself as she fought to regain her proper attitude. I thought not seeing these waves and the effects of the gale on the water’s surface was less troubling. Would that it were still dark!
But, we managed to survive and actually made some progress, scant though it was, toward our destination. Though the galley fires had been extinguished by the storm and the men were forced to eat cold food, all hands performed admirably, according to both Captain Decatur and Mister Cutler. By nightfall, the wind had diminished, and an easier sea soon followed. A brilliant sunset, with streaks of red and orange, gold, yellow and purple, turned the sea into a garish and gaudy artist’s palette with hues that, Lieutenant Morris assured me, bespoke a fine day on the morrow. The galley fires were relit, the men given an extra tot of whiskey, and, as the wind blew fresh and clean from the southwest over our starboard quarter, the Argus brig flew through the diminishing seas toward Gibraltar, to the unmitigated joy of our captain.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Land! Land ho! Fine on the larboard bow! Deck there, land on the larboard bow!” The lookout’s cry brought most of the hands and all of the midshipmen not already there to the deck. Some, myself included, leaped into the rigging to catch a first glimpse of what we hoped was Gibraltar. From the fighting top of the foremast, I squinted into the sun, still low on the horizon as the morning watch took the deck, and made out a faint smudge, darker than the sea and the sky, separating the two. Our joy and excitement knew no bounds; even some of the older more experienced hands had trouble hiding their delight at reaching our destination.
But we had not; the land, I discovered when I returned to the quarterdeck, proved to be the coast of Spain just south of Cape St. Vincent. It would be necessary to sail another several hundred miles southeast along the coast to Gibraltar, which we did in a fine fair breeze under brilliant, deep blue skies, finally passing through that most famous narrows and into the harbor there on All Saints Day, the first of November, 1803, some five weeks after departing Boston.
The harbor on the west side of that distinctive peninsula was bustling; ships, most showing the British ensign, swung to anchors while long boats, cutters, and yawls stroked to and fro between the quay wall and the ships. As we rounded up, searching for both an American flag and a place to set our anchor, we fired a salute which was promptly and noisily answered by a British two-decker anchored just off the quay.
“You know, Mister Baldwin, Gibraltar has not always been a British possession; it was, as recently as the last century, owned by the Kingdom of Spain. It only became British by the Treaty of Utrecht. Of course, after thinking on it for some considerable years, Spain tried to take it back by force of arms, once in the 1720s and again in the late 1770s. They were unsuccessful both times, and Britain remains still the undisputed owner of the Rock. We Americans are here only through their forbearance.” Decatur spoke, peering intently through a long glass as he searched the assembled vessels for any he recognized. Lieutenant Morris held the deck and stood by the helm, guiding the brig through the anchorage. I was on the quarterdeck, and at the captain’s side, by virtue of now being Morris’ junior watch officer. Our rigging was alive with sailors ready to hand the sails on orders from Mister Church as we prepared to come to our anchor.
“Can you make out Constitution, Cap’n?” Morris also studied the fleet, but without the aid of a glass. For myself, I wondered whether he could identify Philadelphia. I longed to see my brother and share with him the adventures I had experienced on my “course to manhood” and see whether or not he would opine that I had “given nothing to leeward” as Lieutenant Cutler had instructed.
“No, Mister Morris, I can not. An easier v
essel to spot I could not imagine, but she does not appear to be in.” Decatur paused, making another swing of the glass through the harbor and, as if reading my mind, added, “Nor does Bainbridge. I can make the schooner Enterprise and a few of the other smaller vessels . . . in fact, I believe I see Charlie Stewart’s Syren, just there.” He stretched out his arm, pointing, and muttered something under his breath. I didn’t catch all of it, but Decatur’s tone sounded as if the captain was disappointed or angry that his friend Charles Stewart had beaten us across the sea. Oh! how that man longed to get his ship into the action!
My own disappointment knew no bounds. I had rehearsed in my mind greeting Edward in proper naval tradition before even we were halfway here, and now, Philadelphia was not to be seen. I would have to settle for a letter left for me and my hopes rose on that happy thought. Would that he had!
Barely had we set our best bower into the sandy bottom of Gibraltar’s harbor when a boat put out from the nearby Enterprise bearing none other than her captain. Lieutenant Isaac Hull. After being welcomed aboard with due pomp and ceremony, he and Decatur disappeared to the Cabin to be joined by our first lieutenant as quickly as he had got the ship put to rights. The midshipmen discussed in some detail what the meeting would offer, to us, mainly, and debated at some length what Argus would be doing over the next several months.
“I don’t need to guess; I know what we’ll be doin’ quick as the ship gets set aright, and we get more food an’ such aboard.” Wheatley’s smug expression of certainty stopped our conjecture dead in its tracks. We all turned to him expectantly. James asked the question Tom was awaiting, like a cat watching a bird get closer and closer, and, like the cat, he pounced on young James.
“What do you think, stupid? We’re gonna go kill pirates. We’re gonna be sent to Tripoli, and Argus is gonna pound them rascals into matchwood, them what we don’t take as prizes, that is.” He smiled, daring Stevens, or any of us, to contradict him. I had noticed a gradual decline in Wheatley’s effort at speaking properly, and the unvarnished Thomas seemed to show through more and more.
“That’s certainly a safe bet, Tom. I believe that’s why we’re here in the first place. Doesn’t take a gypsy to figure out that sending Argus, and us, after almost daily gun drills all the way across, to some friendly port, there to partake of the pleasures offered, would answer at all.” Judd’s tone was friendly enough, but the slow shake of his head told more eloquently how he felt about Thomas’ prediction. “It’s my bet that Preble either has, or will soon, throw up a blockade across Tripoli’s harbor. Whether or not we go in and ‘pound them rascals into matchwood’ will depend on the success of a blockade. ‘Sides, Argus is one of the few vessels shallow enough to get into the thin water close to shore, where we can do some good.”
I noticed James break into a grin as he added, albeit quietly, “And Judd’s been here before. ‘At’s more’n you can say, Mister Know-it-all!”
Wheatley’s jaw assumed its forward thrust as he acknowledged James’ comment with barely a glance, then scowled at Devon. “You remember I tol’ you all I could ‘read’ people and know what’s actin’ with ‘em? Well, this is one o’ them times. I watched Decatur with that lieutenant what come aboard a while ago and managed to catch a few words of what they was sayin’ afore they got into the Cabin. And I know I’m right ‘bout this. You mark my words!”
“Tom, why don’t we wait ‘til Cap’n Decatur comes out of his meeting with Cap’n Hull? Like as not, he’ll let us know what the future holds for Argus and all of us.” I offered my thought with as pleasant a tone as I could manage.
“Well, Oliver, I guess we ain’t got a choice, now do we? So I reckon we’re stuck with doin’ just that; but you,” and here he looked at each of us for a moment before continuing, “wait and see if’n I ain’t right on the mark on this.” And he stood, turned and left the cockpit without a further word.
“What’s acting between you and Wheatley, Oliver? Seems like the last few weeks, he ain’t once come after you the way he does Judd and me. You two aren’t becoming friends, are you?” James grinned at his joke, and I caught a smiling Judd nodding in agreement as he spoke.
“I surely haven’t an idea, James. But you’re quite right; he has been more than civil to me for quite a while. Almost friendly, in fact. I really hadn’t taken notice of it ‘til you mentioned it now, but as I think on it, he has been laying off me for some time.” James’ comment made me think back on what might have caused the shift in Wheatley’s attitude toward me and not either of the other two. Unlikely it is, I thought, that he might have decided that we should be friends; and if it is so, why me and not the other two? I pondered the question while James and Judd discussed Wheatley and the assignment Argus might draw when the Commodore returned. Then it struck me.
It was several days after I had found him hiding behind the cutter during that frightful storm that he changed the way he treated me. While I hadn’t said a word to anyone, and had even lied to Lieutenant Cudtler about his whereabouts during the storm, Tom didn’t know that, or that I wouldn’t. He must think that by not picking on me he could ensure my silence. That had to be it! He was ashamed of his behavior and afraid of me, or rather what I knew and what I might say! There was a twist; a bully afraid of me, the butt of pranks from people like him most of my life. I was sure he had figured out that, at least ‘til then, I had not spoken of his cowardly behavior.
My father had drummed into my head that being a tattle would do me no good at all, rather only serve to antagonize those who might make my life miserable. I struggled to remember this advice when, shortly after the weather calmed, I heard Tom tell any in earshot of his heroic efforts on the main yard. That, after he heard Lieutenant Hobbs mention to the first lieutenant my own role in shortening sail that night. When first I heard Wheatley telling this tale, I was stunned; surely he . . . well, I guess he did expect any who heard to believe him. It was so dark and impossible to see anything that night, who might say otherwise? And the maintop was, indeed, his station. If his lack of animosity toward me was the result of my silence, well, so be it. I hadn’t planned on mentioning it in any case. But, by the time we had set our anchor in Gibraltar, the final ember of goodwill that might have flickered in my breast for Thomas Wheatley had been extinguished, and I felt nothing but enmity toward him. While I would go nary a step out of my way to court his friendship, neither would I speak ill of him; it seemed quite fruitless. Whenever possible, I simply ignored him.
The mid-day ritual of’spirits up’ was just being piped when Harris, the captain’s steward, poked his head into the cockpit and announced that all officers and midshipmen were wanted in the Cabin, if you please, sirs, and the cap’n would brook no delays. The three us of stood at once and made our way up and aft, as bidden.
“Harris, you might want to have a look topside for Mister Wheatley. No telling where he might have got to, but he should be told.” Judd suggested to the sailor before he withdrew from our quarters. Harris nodded, knuckled his forehead, and left, presumably in search of the missing mid.
“And where is Mister Wheatley?” Captain Decatur asked no one in particular after we all, save Thomas, had pressed into his Great Cabin. The silence was complete ‘til, feeling a responsibility to speak for his messmate, Judd responded.
“Sir, he was not in the cockpit when Harris fetched us here. If you like, I would be pleased to have a look for him.”
“That won’t be necessary, Mister Devon. Harris, did you look anywhere beside the cockpit for Mister Wheatley? Well,” Decatur continued after receiving an affirmative nod, “pass the word for him, Harris, if you please.” Even in the Cabin, we could hear Tom’s name move about the ship as the ‘word was passed.’
After waiting a moment or two with no appearance from our missing messmate, Decatur faced us and spoke. “I have been informed that Commodore Preble has left orders that Isaac Hull and I are to exchange commands; he is senior to me and as such, is entitled to the larger ves
sel. Captain Hull will be taking Argus out quick as she’s got her rigging set up taut and stores aboard. Since he will bring his officers and midshipmen with him, I will be taking you gentlemen with me to Enterprise. I can not offer you the accommodations you enjoy here; you will be most assuredly cramped on the schooner, but each of you is welcome to come. Mister Wakefield has already indicated to me he will join me. I have sailed in Enterprise; she carries twelve long twelve-pounders, and she is a sprightly and well-mannered vessel, built on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. You may recall that it was Enterprise under Andrew Sterrett that captured the Tripolitan polacre back in August of the year one.”
As with one voice, each of us expressed our willingness to transfer with our captain to the smaller vessel. I suspect each of us had our own reasons for going. For my part, I trusted Decatur and felt that, with his previous experience with these ‘piratical bastards,’ he would do well by us.
“I will see how many of his officers Hull is bringing and will act—and choose—accordingly. I will also take Gunner Tarbox and Bosun Anderson as well as my cox’n, Lockhart. Since I, as commanding officer, can select some men to go with us, are there any who you would suggest might be helpful in our new assignment?” Captain Decatur paused and, since he seemed to be looking directly at me, I spoke without a thought.
“Bradford, sir. Gun captain on the forward carronades in my crews.” Realizing I had likely spoken out of turn, I colored and felt the heat rise in my neck, then make its way to my hairline. But none in the room, including the captain, so much as glanced my way. The captain nodded and made a note on a piece of paper he took from his desk. Several other names were offered for the new crew, and then we were excused.
“Judd,” I called after our senior mid had started up the ladder to the weath-erdeck. “What do you make of that?”
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