Old Glory

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by Christopher Nicole


  ‘Speech,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Members of Congress,’ John Paul said, ‘gentlemen, I thank you.’ He looked from face to face. ‘I myself have never had the slightest doubt that I could command a well found ship to victory over our country’s enemies, no matter what the odds against me. I am delighted to have proved that to be so, to the satisfaction of this immortal body. But gentlemen, let me add, that for all your flattery, my victory was on a small scale indeed compared with some of the epic sea battles of the past. Gentlemen, I, the United States Navy, craves only an opportunity to equal such deeds. And I may say, that well as I have commanded my ship and my squadron, and aware as I am that you in your wisdom have seen fit to list another as my senior officer in this Navy …’ once again his gaze searched their faces, noting their consternation that he should have chosen this moment to raise the matter of John Barry’s name being placed above his in the recently published list of captains, ‘I have even less doubt that were I to be given command of a fleet of war, only supposing that fleet is composed of loyal Americans and not self-seeking mercenaries, then will I promise you a greater victory than you can ever have dreamed of.’ He smiled at their obvious discomfiture. ‘I know, gentlemen, that such a dream can only remain a dream, in our present circumstances. But gentlemen, if we Americans did not dream … would we be Americans at all?’ That brought the smiles back to their faces. ‘So, gentlemen, I accept this medal with due humility, and thank you for it, and here and now signify my willingness to serve my country in whatever capacity she sees fit to use me in. Gentlemen, I thank you.’

  The room again rang to applause as he sat down, and Mr Hancock stood up again.

  ‘A gallant speech, Captain Jones,’ he said. ‘And rest assured that should it ever be our good fortune to possess a fleet of war such as you dreamed of, you will come high in the consideration of those chosen for command.’

  John Paul scowled, and Hancock turned back to face the assembly. ‘But we are not yet done with honouring our gallant sailors. I have another medal here, again made of gold, a medal of honour, issued by this Congress of the United States to commemorate a deed of surpassing courage, one might almost say, careless courage, which indeed may have made Captain Jones’ victory possible. I have no need to relate to you how a member of Captain Jones’ crew, with an utter disregard for his personal safety, climbed the rigging of the Bonhomme Richard with a lighted grenade in each hand, and hurled one of these destructive missiles straight into a powder barrel on board the Serapis, thereby causing the fire, and the panic, which put the British guns out of action.’ He turned to Harry, seated beside John Paul. ‘Lieutenant McGann … my word, I am a dolt. Captain McGann, I should have said, I would like to be able to say to this congress, to say to the world, that you have done nothing more than uphold the finest traditions of the United States Navy. However, sir, I feel even more gratified to be able to say to you, Captain McGann, that you have created a tradition for the United States Navy, a tradition of selfless courage, of devotion to duty regardless of personal safety, of determination to conquer, regardless of the odds against you, that I hope and trust, and know, will last as long as will this great Nation of ours. Captain McGann.’

  Harry had to bend almost double to have the chain placed round his neck. But was grateful for that; it hid his blushes.

  ‘Speech!’ they shouted.

  He took a long, slow breath. ‘Members of Congress,’ he said. ‘I thank you. But I think I should correct a misapprehension. It was, as perhaps one or two of you gentlemen may know, my misfortune to have to spend several months as a seaman on board one of His Majesty’s frigates. I did not enjoy the experience, gentlemen. And so I will confess to you that when I climbed into the rigging on the night of 23 September last year, with my burning grenades, I was inspired less by any thoughts of the United States, or even of ultimate victory, I only knew that if I was going to sink with the Bonhomme Richard, then those bastards were coming with me down to Davy Jones’ locker.’

  There was a roar of laughter.

  ‘But gentlemen,’ Harry went on. ‘Honoured as both Captain Jones and myself are today, I would ask you to remember, always, that for all his dash and boldness and seamanship, and for all the good fortune that attended my throw of the grenade, we would still not have gained the victory but for the equally selfless determination and the fighting spirit of the men who sailed with us under our glorious flag. I would hope that whenever the name of Flamborough Head is recalled, the entire crew of the Bonhomme Richard, and the Pallasy will also be honoured. I thank you.’

  There was a storm of applause, and Hancock shook Harry’s hand. ‘You are as modest as you are brave, Captain.’

  ‘Modesty,’ John Paul said. ‘It has always been his weakness.’ But he took Harry’s hand himself. ‘I am as proud of you, Harry, as I am of myself.’

  ‘And now, gentlemen,’ Hancock said, ‘the future is yours. Will you sail in harness, to the destruction of the enemy?’

  They looked at each other. ‘We will sail to the destruction of the enemy, to be sure, Mr Hancock,’ John Paul said. ‘But I think it would be best if our paths were now to separate.’

  ‘That surely cannot be,’ Hancock protested. ‘In harness …’

  ‘We may possibly achieve great things,’ Harry agreed. ‘But there is too much to be done. Captain Jones is being given command of the Alliance in order to resume his raids upon British shipping, as I understand it.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Hancock acknowledged. ‘And this is his forte. He will have Richard Dale as First Lieutenant. There is a fine seaman. But I’m sure you will also agree that Captain Jones’ best prospects of success do lie on the other side of the Atlantic.’

  Hancock nodded, looking somewhat discomforted. Quite apart from his outburst during his speech, it was well known that John Paul had flatly refused to serve under Barry, and thus had beeen fobbed off with the Alliance, much to his disgust. But at least Pierre Landais had been dismissed and discountenanced. ‘But you, Captain McGann,’ he said, ‘would rather serve in home waters.’

  Harry gave John Paul a brief smile. ‘There are too many temptations for me on the other side, Mr Hancock. Yes, I would rather serve where our fight began, and where it will soon end, hopefully.’

  Brave words, he thought, as the months passed. To begin with, there had been no ship for him to command at all, and in frustration he had served with the army in the field … but even that had been frustrating enough, as there was little fighting before New York, save for the odd skirmish; the main British and Franco-American armies preferred to glare at each other from their cantonments.

  At least reassuring news had from time to time filtered through from England, in the form of long delayed letters. That from his mother was most comforting. As Franklin had promised, she and Jenny and Rory had been set free, and they had indeed returned to Tramore, from whence the Pollocks had fled for good, and where, apparently, Harry was regarded as more of a hero than ever. Nor were they in any way troubled by the Squire, who had closed up the manor and gone to England, taking Annie with him.

  The other letter, which did not arrive until just before Christmas 1780, was from Elizabeth, and all but reduced him to tears, for in it she told him of the birth of her son; the letter had actually been written immediately following her safe delivery — in May. May! Seven months! For it was his son as well. She insisted on that, and he believed her. Toby! Toby McGann!

  Even more important, however, she seemed to have survived her reunion with her husband. That she had had to be reunited with him at all was a thought to drive Harry wild with outrage, but at least she was well, and apparently dreamed only of seeing him again whenever the war might end — but she was also strangely apprehensive of what might happen when he and Steyne at last came to face to face, and begged him to use the utmost caution.

  Well, Harry reasoned, that was a bridge the crossing of which would have to be planned when the time came. That she was well, and unh
armed, and the mother of his son — and that she still loved him — were all that mattered for the time being. Now only ending the war mattered, and if that seemed as remote as ever in the new year, at last in the spring of 1781 a ship was provided for him, a captured merchantman, a barque, which had been converted to resemble a small frigate and carried thirty-two guns. In this new Wasp, because of his previous experiences of the French and his knowledge of their language, he was given the task of scouting for the French squadron, commanded by the Count de Barras, which had now arrived in American waters in response to the urgent appeals of General Washington. For the general was also aware that as long as the British controlled the seas off the American coastline, and thus could move their armies to and fro as if they were pieces on a chess board — as they had, for instance, removed General Howe’s besieged army from Boston to New York with the greatest of ease — and even more important, supply any of their armies which could make contact with a seaport, the war was never going to be won. The single substantial American success so far, the surrender of Burgoyne’s army, had been achieved simply because Burgoyne had made the cardinal error of forgetting that Great Britain’s strength lay on the water, and had chosen to attempt to make his way through the forests of northern New York state, far from the nearest ship. Neither General Clinton, who had succeeded General Howe in overall command of the British forces in America, nor Lord Cornwallis, his subordinate, who commanded the army in the south, were going to make the same mistake, that was obvious.

  A fleet action was therefore essential. And there was a British fleet constantly maintained in American waters. Ordered to engage this fleet, however, the Count de Barras did no more than demonstrate, and then withdraw, to the safety of Rhode Island. Harry had never seen so grand a sight as the French squadron, eight line of battle ships, sailing majestically in line ahead, while their frigates, amongst which was his own Wasp, flanked then and ranged ahead to discern the enemy’s movements. But the British had been hardly inferior in number, six line of battle ships, and this had caused Barras’ decision. Amazement had rapidly been replaced by fury on board the American vessel, but they were under the orders of the French admiral, and could do nothing but obey. The Situation was explained to him, as well as it could be, when they had regained their anchorage.

  ‘You must understand, Captain McGann,’ said Captain Messemer, who commanded one of the French frigates and had come across to dine, ‘that fighting at sea is second nature to the British. The Frenchman, he is essentially a land animal. We produce the finest soldiers the world has ever seen. But at sea … some few of us find it a natural element on which to work and fight, but the majority, no. That is the only reason we have never truly been able to match the English in naval battles. Only men like du Casse, who had received his training as a buccaneer, could meet the English on equal terms and beat them. Alas, we no longer have a du Casse. The Count de Barras well knows that for us to engage the English without a two to one superiority would be to court disaster.’

  Harry could hardly believe his ears. ‘I do assure you, monsieur,’ he said, ‘that I cannot escape the feeling that you have created some kind of myth of English invincibility. Well, sir, I can tell you, that is a myth it has been my pleasure to destroy.’

  ‘One ship,’ Messemer remarked, with quiet condescension. ‘Oh, mistake me not, Captain McGann. It was a glorious action, by all accounts. All France rings to the names of Captain Jones and yourself.’ Again the note of condescension. ‘And Captain Landais, of course. But one ship is not a fleet of war, commanded by such a man as Lord Rodney. Tell me, Captain, have you ever been engaged in a fleet action?’

  Harry took refuge in a glass of wine. ‘No, monsieur, I have not.’

  ‘Then you have no real concept of what I am speaking. I, sir, have fought the British on more than one occasion.’

  ‘Are they then, demi-gods?’ demanded Harry’s First Lieutenant, Thomas Truxton.

  Messemer shrugged. ‘Who can say? They fight above themselves, at sea. They manoeuvre their ships more quickly and with more skill than we can do, they fire guns more quickly, and they fire them more accurately, too.’ Harry frowned. Those three characteristics had certainly been amply displayed by the Serapis.

  ‘Aha,’ Messemer said. ‘Yes, monseiur, I observe your expression. But there is yet another asset they possess in terrible quantity; they never know when they are beaten.’

  ‘Now that, sir, I would argue,’ Harry said. ‘Because one frigate struck her colours to you, Sir? She was not commanded by Rodney, or Hood. One day, Captain McGann, you may have the misfortune to be engaged against the true Royal Navy, led by one of its great admirals, and then, monsieur, then you will understand something of our reasons for caution.’

  Harry scratched his head. ‘So we shall never fight them? Then what, may I ask, is the purpose in your government maintaining a fleet in these waters at all?’

  Messemer refused to take offence, merely tapped his nose. ‘We must be patient, Captain McGann. Patience is the key to ultimate victory. We must watch, and wait, for just the right opportunity.’

  Patience, Harry thought in disgust. Ben Franklin kept recommending patience, too. So he drilled his men and endeavoured to turn them into a fighting machine which might one day equal that of the British, ably assisted by Truxton, who was a friend as well as a subordinate. They had much in common. Five years the younger, Truxton had also been once impressed by the Royal Navy, and held them in the same regard as his captain. In the early years of the war he had commanded a privateer in the West Indies, with considerable success — indeed, Harry often felt he truly wished to resume that life — but for all his lack of experience of actual sea warfare he was a bold and determined man, and Harry liked and respected him.

  But busy as were his days, every night he lay awake and thought of Elizabeth, and worried as to her situation and that of the boy, situations he could do nothing to alleviate until this unending war did finally end.

  Which possibility kept receding into the distance. In June the fleet was commanded to prepare itself for the hurricane season; extra anchors were carried out, extra warps prepared, the skies anxiously watched — and another season’s campaigning was clearly finished. Harry would indeed have welcomed a hurricane just to alleviate the boredom. But he was conscious of the risks and drilled his men harder than ever — to be quite taken aback when a message arrived requiring him to report to General Washington’s encampment in New Jersey.

  ‘Leave my ship, at this time of year?’ he demanded.

  Truxton shrugged. ‘Perhaps we are to be sent ashore to take our places in the line.’

  ‘What line?’ Harry muttered. ‘Yet it is an order I must obey. Tom … you’ll mind my ship.’

  ‘I will do that, Captain McGann. As long as I have breath in my body.’

  *

  It was a long journey, through the hinterland of New York State and round to the borders of New Jersey, avoiding British patrols and soaked by summer rainstorms. But Washington had commanded haste, and Harry and his mounted escort slept only when they could ride no longer, while at every American outpost fresh horses were waiting for them. When finally he rode into the headquarters encampment on 11 August, he was utterly exhausted, but was given no time to rest, being ushered immediately into Washington’s command tent.

  Harry had met the general the previous year, when he had served with the army, and had immediately formed a considerable respect for this tall, lantern-jawed man, plagued by toothache, and plagued even more by the frustrations and delays he experienced in accomplishing anything, with Congress always breathing down his neck, wishing to know when he was going to do this, and why he had not already done that; with an army which, even after the efforts of his drillmaster, Baron Steuben, remained sorely lacking in discipline, and in equipment, with allies, the French regulars who had come to their aid since the French declaration of war, who were superbly equipped and disciplined and looked down on their colonial comrades, an
d faced by a tenacious and often numerically superior foe, also well equipped, and composed entirely of experienced professional soldiers. And having to be faced. Whatever successes might attend Lord Cornwallis and his legendary cavalry commander, Banastre Tarleton, in the south, it was still Congress’s determination that the ultimate decision in this struggle must come right here, when the Continental Army retook New York.

  On this occasion, Harry was pleased to note that Washington seemed much more cheerful and determined than at their last meeting. ‘Fighting Harry McGann,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Good of you to come, Captain. All is well with your ship?’

  ‘When I left her, General,’ Harry said. ‘At this time of year a captain is never happy away from his command.’

  ‘I understand.’ Washington gazed into his eyes. ‘But you’d have no fears of taking her to sea in the hurricane season?’

  Harry returned his gaze, while his heart slowly began to pound. ‘Why, sir, most seamen reckon a well found ship is safer at sea than in port, when there is bad weather.’

  Washington smiled, his lips as tight as ever. ‘Good man. You’ve not met Count Rochambeau.’

  Jean Baptiste Donatien de Vimeur, Count de Rochambeau, gave a brief bow. ‘We have met, Captain,’ he said. ‘When you and Captain Jones were making the most of French society.’

  Harry returned his bow, trying to recall this sharp featured man in the most elaborate blue and white uniform, and not succeeding; he could only hope the fellow was not some erstwhile lover of Madame Falloux or the Countess D’Eperne. ‘The pleasure was mine, Count.’

 

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