Find a way of contacting Cap’n Bainbridge! My mind raced ahead of the commodore as he spoke those words. If he can correspond with Bainbridge, then certainly I can send letters to Edward. That would be grand and likely relieve his loneliness in captivity. Perhaps he can even get letters out to me. I must write him quickly so as to be ready if there is a way found to get letters into the prison. Wait! The letter I left with the port captain; I must retrieve it at once.
An elbow in my ribs brought me back to Constitution’s quarterdeck once again. I turned in irritation to the owner of the elbow, lames, who whispered, “Sorry about your brother, Oliver. Hope he’s not hurt. Looks like Decatur is fixin’ to take his leave. Reckon we should go with him.”
Indeed, the meeting was over. Whether or not Preble had uttered any other words, or orders, to us I knew not. My head and body seemed still disconnected, one here and the other ashore in some pest-hole of a prison in Tripoli. As we approached the break in the bulwark to call in Decatur’s boat, which had been laying off with the other ships’ boats, I suddenly realized that Captain Decatur was speaking to me.
“Sad news, indeed, Mister Baldwin. I certainly hope that your brother, and my good friend, Edward Baldwin, is alive and unhurt. I can only imagine the concern you must feel; should my own brother, James—you perhaps noticed him with the officers from Nautilus—be captured or killed, I am quite sure it would be my undoing. We shall see this through, you may rest assured, though how we might go about gaining the release of our men is quite beyond me.” Decatur paused, watching the boat draw alongside the frigate. Almost as if musing to himself, he added, “Doubt we can just storm the battlements with Marines. Mayhaps a lengthy bombardment will bring those rascals to heel!”
“Thank you, sir, for your sentiments. I certainly join in your hope. Did the commodore say anything about getting the crew released? My head must have been elsewhere, if he did.”
“No, no. He did not. But I’d warrant he’s thinkin’ on it. I’d wager he’ll try to contact that Danish consul—what was his name?—Nissen, I recollect. Aye, Nissen. Likely see if he can assist. But do not worry; I am confident this will work out satisfactorily, and Edward with it.” Decatur put a hand on my shoulder in a paternal gesture of comfort.
“Sir, should you have need of a midshipman on your venture to recapture Philadelphia, I would be most pleased to be included.” I spoke the words, surprised at hearing them uttered even as I thought them. Oh, Lord! Oliver, you’ve got to think before you speak. You’re just reacting foolishly to Edward’s capture. After all, capturing that ship wouldn’t help Edward; might even do him harm . . . pasha might take out his anger on the prisoners. And should anything happen to me, it would likely kill my parents to have one son a captive and perhaps, slave, of these piratical bastards and the other dead in a futile and ill-starred effort to rescue not the captives, but the lost vessel. My shock at my utterance must have been visible to the captain; he smiled and again lightly touched my shoulder.
“Thank you, Mister Baldwin. Once a plan is decided upon, I will seek an appropriate number of volunteers from within our ship’s company to carry it to fruition. You will certainly be considered.” Decatur stepped down the side into his waiting boat, leaving me wondering what horrors I might have called down upon myself.
The remainder of November 1803 passed quite without any conscious thought on my part. I performed my various duties to both the vessel and James in a purely mechanical and perfunctory manner. We sailed for some weeks off and on the coast of Tripoli, with little success to record. The others were solicitous toward me; even Thomas Wheatley seemed to fade into a blurred background of blue jackets, white breeches, cannon, spars, sails, and a dazzling sea all set to a symphony of the groaning wind, slapping lines and canvas, and shouted orders. By early December we were back in Syracuse, loading stores and some additional spars for further forays toward the coast of North Africa.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The seventeenth of December, 1803, found us close-hauled out of Syracuse in the company of Constitution on a southerly heading which would take us back to the coast of Tripoli. No news of any kind had reached us from the Bashaw’s prison or Consul Nissen and, after my earlier hopes of communicating with my brother had soared with the possibilities offered by Captain Bainbridge’s letter, the complete silence from that quarter now dashed into oblivion any remaining hope. I had visited the port captain in Syracuse to gain possession of my letter to Edward, and it sat, along with a new, as yet unfinished missive, in my chest. A poorly writ letter to my parents—barely begun and not yet to the point—sat in my tiny writing desk, blockaded by my own inability to know how I might break the news, devastating as I knew it would be, to them.
The port captain had been most solicitous, assuring me of his sincere desire to help in any way he might, but there was little even a man of his lofty position could do to ease my, and Edward’s, plight. Oh! How I wished for the wisdom and advice of my parents, four thousand miles distant, they might as well have been on the moon, on what course to follow. Surely Father, at least, would know what to do. No matter how I struggled, I was quite unable to convince myself that I could arrive at a solution which would answer.
A week later, having been beset by either foul weather with contrary winds or flat calms, we approached the coast of Tripoli. The fact that it was only two days ‘til Christmas weighed on my mind. I could not but worry what Edward was suffering at the hands of his captors. Surely, I thought, they would permit no celebration for their ‘infidel’ prisoners—a term I had only just learned from Bosun Anderson, to my further dismay. I was still no closer to arriving at a course of action or the completion of any of the letters I had begun. I had composed any number of weak and, to my mind, sniveling explanations to my parents, trying to break gently to them the terrible news of Edward’s capture. Each was discarded as quickly as it was conceived. My mind reeled with combinations of words that would accomplish what I sought.
As the last rays of the sun turned the late day sky into brilliant shades of purple, orange, and red, I stood at the quarterdeck rail idly watching the commodore’s ship, USS Constitution, as she breasted the light swell with her broad and powerful bow. The spray thrown up, as she effortlessly brushed aside a larger wave, caught the late sunlight and made it sparkle in a multicolored dazzle. Her sails, set to t’gallants, reflected the colors of the sky in muted tones and complimented her black hull with its distinctive ochre stripe. Had not my mind been elsewhere, I would have been struck by the magnificence of the spectacle; not only was I unmoved by the display, I was barely aware of its existence. So distant were my thoughts that it took a moment for the lookout’s hail to register on my despondent consciousness.
“Deck there! Sail! Two points on the leeward bow. Deck there!”
When the sailor’s words penetrated my brain, a glance at Lieutenant Hobbs, with whom I once again shared the watch, was all I needed to bring my head to the present and my body into the main shrouds to confirm the lookout’s cry.
“Aye, Mister Hobbs. She appears to be ketch-rigged and heading just a trifle below our own course. Mayhaps heading for the coast. I make her to be about two or three leagues distant.” My shouted confirmation of the lookout’s sighting and response to Hobbs’ request received a wave from the deck officer. Even before my feet touched the planks of the weather deck, I saw Captain Decatur emerge from the scuttle, hatless and without his jacket.
“Mister Baldwin, was that vessel showing any flag that you could make out?” The captain had that same glint in his eyes I had noticed on several other occasions. His glass was tucked under his arm, and he rubbed his hands together as if they were cold.
“No, sir. I saw none.” Knowing Decatur would want all the information I could provide, I added, “And she didn’t seem in much of a hurry. Unless she’s just a dull sailer.”
“Very well. Mister Hobbs, we will bear off half a point and see what reaction, if any, that provokes. Have the quartermaster
show the appropriate signal to the flagship. And put up a British ensign, if you please.” With that, Captain Decatur sprang into the weather ratlines and quickly climbed to the partners of the mainmast. As orders swirled around the schooner, the men became aware that something, a prize, perhaps, was afoot. The off watch began to appear on deck, craning their necks to see what had caused the excitement. Lieutenant Lawrence stepped onto the quarterdeck, slipping his sword into its hanger as he did. His eye took in everything around him: the fact that the schooner was eased from her earlier course and separating from the flagship; the signal flags whipping in the easy breeze; the British ensign; and, perhaps most importantly, that the captain was aloft. He stepped to the binnacle, peered in, then fixed our second lieutenant with his stare.
“What have we, Mister Hobbs? A prize in the offing, perchance?” I noticed that Lawrence had the same fiery gleam in his eyes as had the captain. I think we all had it in some degree, eager as we were for the opportunity to hurt the pirates as much as they had hurt us. There had been no chance whatever—in fact, this little ketch was the first vessel we had sighted in some time—to exact our punishment for the heinous deed that weighed so heavily on each man’s mind, mine most especially.
“Can’t say for certain yet, sir. Might be. ‘Ceptin’ accordin’ to Mister Baldwin, here, she likely won’t make us rich. Some puny from his description, she is.” Hobbs peered over his glasses at Lawrence and then at me. I nodded silently in agreement.
“Signal from the commodore, sir.” The quartermaster stood at the windward rail studying the flagship through a long glass. “‘Enterprise to investigate vessel and engage if enemy.’ ” Then, as he lowered the glass, he added, “And he says ‘good luck,’ too, sir.” The glass closed with a crisp snap and the sailor turned to Hobbs. “Any response, sir?”
“I would think none is needed, Taylor, save an acknowledgment. But keep an eye on them over there in case the commodore has more to say.” Lawrence had glanced aloft before he answered; Decatur was still at the partners of the mainmast, the glass still at his eye as he studied the unknown vessel
The schooner increased her speed with the more favorable course. It wasn’t long before we could see the strange vessel’s masts from deck. With our superior speed and greater spread of canvas, Enterprise was within cannon shot range while there was still some light left in the sky. We could make out a lightly armed ketch of some sixty or seventy feet with a crew clad in the white robes of one or another of the North African nations. The captain had returned to the quarterdeck and paced as much as the narrow confines of the diminutive deck would allow, all the while, hammering a fist into his open hand.
“Mister Lawrence, we’ll have action stations, if you please. And load the forward wind’ard twelve-pounder with a powder charge. We’ll see whether he might heave to without a fight.” The first lieutenant glanced at me, wordlessly sending me forward to carry out the captain’s instructions. As I left, Decatur muttered something else to Lawrence, but, already heading forward, I was not close enough to him to understand what he said. Something about the men needing a fight, I thought.
The insistent beating of the drum was, for the most part, unnecessary as the crew, eager for action, had been at their action stations for the past glass and more. I, however, had not and hurried forward to instruct Bradford about loading the windward gun. I was pleased to see my two crews were at their stations, powder charges had been laid out as had shot, and all four of the forward guns for which I was responsible had been drawn back for loading.
“A powder charge only, Bradford, in number one, then stand by.” I watched the quarterdeck to see when the runner I sent to report our readiness was acknowledged and saw Mister Lawrence look up, directly at me, and then wave his arm over his head.
“FIRE!” I shouted, quite unnecessarily as the decks were still calm and the men quiet. But even a powder charge could be thrilling when I knew it could lead to my first enemy action, as well as the first for many of my men. Thrilling and not a little frightening, I realized. The gun issued forth a mighty roar and a belch of flame from its muzzle. Acrid lavender smoke blew back across the deck, momentarily enveloping the gun crew in a sulphurous cloud, stinging our eyes, and causing the men to spit to rid their mouths of the evil taste.
“All right, you men, quit yer gawkin’ and clap onto the breechings; that gun ain’t gonna pull itself back.” Bradford’s crew had forgotten, as had I, that with no shot, the gun’s recoil was insufficient to roll the carriage back for swabbing and reloading. Guiltily, I pulled my eyes away from the strange vessel and watched as the men swabbed out the bore and prepared to reload the cannon. I heard some muttering and comments that most likely were not meant for me, as the men worked.
“Hope they give us a scrap!”
“They won’t quit that easy.”
“Come on, you bastards, fire at us.”
Clearly, the men were as ripe for a fight as the captain and first lieutenant were. For my own self, I wasn’t sure yet; I did notice that my stomach suddenly felt like I had swallowed a bag of grape shot. A glance aft, where Tom Wheat-ley stood with his two crews and guns, told me that my colleague might be unsure as well. He seemed reserved in direct contrast to his men who, at the leeward guns, were glaring, shouting lewd challenges, and shaking fists at our intended prize.
A dull thud rolled across the water, diminished by the wind and our distance from the ketch. It was followed by a small geyser that shot up silently some one hundred feet to our leeward. At the same time, I noticed a tiny patch of color appear at the mizzen peak of the smaller ship. It was clearly a flag, but unidentifiable to my untrained eye.
“There it is, lads. They want to fight!” The two or three men who saw the splash shouted with glee; they would get their fight and the opportunity to begin to even the score with the ‘piratical bastards.’ Others on deck and aloft joined in enthusiastically. Their joy quickly rose to a cheer that resonated throughout the ship and, I’m sure, across the water to our quarry. Wheatley’s tanned complexion seemed to have lost some of its color, and his hand nervously toyed with the butt of his dirk. For once, I shared something with him. I wondered if his stomach felt like mine did. Farther down the deck I could see James eagerly leaning over the bulwark, his hands describing what could only be our course to get alongside and board the enemy ship.
“Leeward battery, stand by. Load round shot. Battery commanders, fire as you bear!” Lawrence’s voice carried easily down the deck, and the men turned to their tasks with a will. I could feel Enterprise bearing off and, as she did so, picking up speed. A quick look told me we were on a course that would cross the stern of our quarry and bring us to within pistol-shot range to his wind’ard. Our British ensign, a ruse de guerre, had been replaced by the American colors; we were going to fight!
My guns, given their forward-most position, would be the first to bear. My hands suddenly became moist, and I felt a trickle of sweat down the center of my back. My stomach felt no better. In fact, I kind of eased myself to the lee bulwark just in case. Gunner Tarbox appeared and stood silently by my side. Had he sensed my concerns or was he just making sure that Bradford was doing his job properly? He watched, his eyes shifting between the crews of both guns and our target.
The men loading the guns of my battery moved with precision as they swabbed the barrels, cleared the touch holes, rammed down a cartridge followed by a ball and wad, and hauled the carriage back to the bulwark. Bradford crouched behind the number one gun, watching for the ketch to appear in the narrow frame of the gunport. With trepidation and a glance at Tarbox, who nodded encouragingly at me, I peered over his shoulder. All the training and practice we had gone through had abandoned me without warning. I realized my mind was quite blank. I looked around hoping to see something that might help . . .
I noticed that Bradford was no longer looking down the barrel; he was half-turned, studying me. I could feel the gunner’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Why is he looking
at me like that? He is waiting for me to do something . . . aye, that’s it. But what? As if to help me, he shifted his eyes back to the gun.
A quick glance down the long barrel of the twelve-pounder and out the gunport brought me back to the present. Looking as if it were balanced on the end of the cannon was the ketch. We were bearing to offer a raking fire to our target!
BOOM! BOOM! Two guns fired almost as one. But they weren’t mine. Wheatley had beaten us to firing, even though I was sure only my two guns actually bore at the target. I looked at Bradford and received a nod as he blew on his match.
“FIRE!” I screamed. In my excitement, my voice let me down yet again, breaking into a girlish squeal. But fire we did. Bradford jammed his glowing linstock into the powder at the touch hole. It sizzled and sparked for a second. Suddenly that gun and, less than a second later, the next one aft, thundered, leapt back into their breechings, and lit the quickly darkening night with tongues of flame. My ears rang with the concussion. Once again, while I could see the activities of the men and knew there was noise, I could hear none of it.
The six guns along our leeward side spoke twice more before Lieutenant Lawrence waved his sword and shouted, “Cease fire!” Even with our diminished hearing, the mids and gun captains responsible for those pieces heard and stopped, peering through the smoke to see what result we had gained. I noticed Gunner Tarbox crouching by one of the guns, looking intently at our target.
The Greater the Honor Page 18