At least he still ain’t so upset. Guess I wasn’t on the wrong side of propriety in arguing with him.
In spite of the cold, the thought of facing and being questioned by some of the most distinguished and celebrated officers of our Navy made me break into a sweat and tightened my stomach. Even though I knew I shared none of the blame being heaped upon the commodore, Captain Gordon or the others, I could feel the cold trickle make it’s way down my back. I shrugged off my great coat, hanging it on a peg next to several others belonging, I assumed, to those already in the Cabin. My hat, I tucked carefully under my left arm.
My escort rapped his knuckles sharply on the closed door and I heard a muffled acknowledgment from the other side; he opened it and nodded to me. I stepped into the room and stood for a moment taking in the sight before me. The large Cabin—it took up the full width of the ship— was illuminated by sparkling brass lanterns, each giving off a smoky yellow light which augmented the dim winter daylight struggling in through the large quarter gallery windows. Above each flickering lamp was a dark stain on the overhead, a result of the low grade of whale oil available to the Navy. The dark wood paneling added to the gloom. Most of the furnishings that I had seen in place when the Cabin served only as the apartment to the ship’s captain (or commodore) had been removed and had been replaced with furniture more appropriate to this occasion. The effect was to make the Cabin appear even larger and more imposing than it already was.
Seated at a long table across the after end of the room were several men I recognized from my time in the Mediterranean with Captain Decatur: Commodore William Bainbridge, my brother Edward’s commander in the late Philadelphia frigate; Master Commandant David Porter, first lieutenant in the same ill-fated ship; Captain John Rodgers; Lieutenant James Lawrence, who had been first lieutenant in Enterprise during my time aboard the schooner; and, of course, Captain Decatur sitting immediately to Captain Rodgers’ right. Rodgers was, as Henry had mentioned, president of the court martial and, while not actually a judge or magistrate, functioned as one and was in charge of the proceedings. There were six others at the table who were unfamiliar to me. Each man wore a solemn and grim expression. Their severe expressions left no doubt as to the gravity of the gathering.
Commodore Barron, deep in conversation with a man seated beside him, a civilian in proper frock coat and cravat, sat at a smaller table facing the court and in the middle of the room. Between the two tables was a chair. Empty. In the back of the room were a dozen and more chairs, some occupied, but about half were empty.
“Mister Baldwin, if you will step forward and be sworn, you may then take a seat.” Captain Decatur smiled slightly as he spoke and gestured toward the straight chair.
“Aye, aye, sir.” I mumbled as I made my way to the center of the room, past the chairs occupied in part by officers and a few civilians whose roles I could not determine.
When I got to the designated chair, I made as if to sit down, but another gentleman in civilian garb whom I did not know—Why were there civilians in what appear to be important roles here? Was this not a Navy matter?—appeared at my side and pointedly cleared his throat. I caught myself before my bottom made contact and stood erect, at attention, my hat again tucked under my left arm.
Must be some kind of clerk or something.
“Place your hand on this Bible, if you please.” I did as I was told and, in the process, managed to let slip my hat from where I thought it had been secure. As I bent down to retrieve it, the back of my leg hit the chair and knocked it over with a crash whose noise was exaggerated by the exquisite silence that had prevailed until my misadventures began. When I stood up, my hat now held firmly in my left hand, I started to step back a bit to stand up the chair. I was suddenly exceedingly warm, and realizing that my face was likely scarlet only compounded my discomfort. From the corner of my eye, I caught the horrified looks that seemed to be pasted on every face at the long table. Looks that quickly gave up their struggle for gravity to a suppressed ripple of quiet laughter, augmented by those sitting in the back of the room. Another side-long glance told me that even the commodore and the civilian, whom I took for his lawyer, had been unsuccessful in suppressing a modest level of gaiety.
“I’ll take care of that, Midshipman. You just stay put right there.” The tall civilian who had been about to give me the oath spoke as he bent to right the fallen chair, allowing a barely audible grunt to escape his lips from the effort. Commodore Rodgers rapped his gavel sharply on the table, stilling the undercurrent of quiet mirth that filled the room. And, with the chair once again in it’s proper place and order restored, the gentleman again faced me and held out the Bible.
“Do you swear to tell the truth to this court, the whole truth, so help you God?” He spoke much louder than was necessary for me to hear him and his foul exhalation bespoke some considerable hours of revelry the night before.
I recoiled involuntarily, but answered, “Yes, sir.”
“You may be seated.” I sat. Without further mishap.
Gradually the heat drained away from my face and I knew my color was returning to a more normal shade. But now, in the absence of my earlier embarrassment, I was suddenly aware that my stomach was churning in a most alarming fashion and a sense of foreboding and apprehension threatened to overcome me. It called to mind that dark night, now almost four years back, when I waited with seventy of my shipmates to board and fire the frigate Philadelphia and experience my first taste of naval combat. Hoping for a look, a nod, or a smile of acknowledgment from one of my former superiors, I studied the stern faces lining the long table to my right. There was not a glimmer of recognition from any and I wondered if I had only imagined the earlier smile from Decatur. To my left was my former commodore, James Barron, who was still busy speaking to his counsel and paid me no mind whatever. My stomach continued to roil, making noises I was sure all in the room could hear quite plainly, and threatened to cause me accident of a most embarrassing nature; the pork I had enjoyed at breakfast was surely now less pleasant as I tasted it again, swallowing the excess of wetness in my mouth.
“Mister Baldwin.” Captain Rodgers’ stentorian tones broke the silence, causing me to start. At least talking will hide the rumblings of my poor belly!
“Sir,” I responded.
“You were aboard the United States frigate Chesapeake in June during her late encounter with the British vessel HMS Leopard?”
I nodded, my throat now quite suddenly too dry to utter a sound.
“You must respond aloud to any questions asked, Mister Baldwin. The secretary can not record a motion of your head.” This from Lieutenant Lawrence.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I was aboard Chesapeake at that time. Sir.” It came out more as a croak than the voice of a confident and seasoned midshipman. Indeed, one who had faced death several times over before his fifteenth year had ended. Somehow, this was different.
“And what were your duties in the frigate, sir?” One of the lieutenants at the table asked.
“I held partial responsibility for the second division and also did some recruiting duty at a rendezvous prior to our leaving port … here, from Norfolk. Sir.” I seemed to be regaining some element of composure and relaxed slightly; these questions weren’t so hard. Perhaps my fears were quite misplaced. After all, it wasn’t me on trial here. Even the rumblings and churnings of my midsection quieted a trifle.
“Mister Tazewell, you may proceed with your witness.” Captain Rodgers nodded to the man in civilian garb who merely responded with a curt, “Sir.”
I looked about, trying to determine what was to happen next and who was Mister Tazewell, when the civilian gentleman who had given me the oath approached my chair and stood directly in front of me.
Well, I thought, he’s not just a clerk. Must be important.
As his stature was much greater than my own, especially as I was seated, his devilish breath caused me no distress. I looked up at his countenance, scowling as it was, either from h
is effort to regain some dignity in the face of my own earlier antics or the continuing effects of his apparent over-indulgence I knew not, and I wondered idly whether he had ever experienced a confrontation with an enemy intent on killing him. I thought not.
That I had been aboard in a capacity which rendered me fit to recount the misadventures of that ill-starred and short-lived commission had been established by the several questions of the court martial board and now, the haughty Mister Tazewell, standing rigidly before me would, it appeared, manage my questioning. (I soon discovered he was the judge advocate, and, as such, responsible for most of the conduct of the trial.) He cleared his throat and began.
“Midshipman Baldwin: do you recall the events of 22 June, the year just passed and where you were and what occupied you during those events?”
I nodded. What a silly question. And what a pompous ass! Of course I was there and will likely never forget those events and my role in them.
“Mister Baldwin, you have been instructed already to speak your responses. The secretary can hardly be expected to be looking up at a witness while he is trying to take down verbatim testimony.” Tazewell bent down and spoke his rude words directly into my face, exhaling as he did so. I turned my head, appearing to look at the court, and managed to avoid much of his foul exhalation.
“Yes, sir. Of course I remember. How could I not?”
“Yes … well! Perhaps you might share with the court your recollections from that day and all that transpired.” His face now wore a sneer, perhaps an effort to discredit my having won a victory, small to be sure, but a victory nonetheless. He waited as I gathered my thoughts. I concentrated on not smiling at this pompous buffoon. All thoughts of my uneasiness were banished from my mind as that horrifying day came into sharp focus.
After studying him for a moment, I shifted my gaze to the court and caught the eye of Captain Decatur. He offered a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. I took a breath, relaxed some, and began.
“Yes … well.” I stopped, realizing that my utterance would appear to mimic his own of only a moment before. A look at his face told me I was right. Too late! Press on, Oliver And don’t smile; this is serious!
“We made sail, sir, shortly after six bells in the morning watch, about 7, I think.” I added that in case he was unaware of the meaning of “six bells in the morning watch” and received a tiny smile from Lieutenant Lawrence for my trouble. “It was a fine clear day that augured well for a satisfying commission. As you no doubt already know, we had a significant number of civilians aboard and they were all on deck watching our progress as we made our way on a favorable breeze down the Bay toward Cape Henry and thence to the Atlantic.”
“Assume I know nothing, Midshipman, and tell your tale as you recall it. Leave nothing out.”
Littleton W. Tazewell (I discovered, somewhat later, his full name, and that he was an attorney prominent in Norfolk legal as well as governmental circles, which likely accounted for an appointment to his current role) again aimed his words directly into my face, his noxious breath emphasizing each syllable. Assuming he knew nothing would surely not be difficult.
“Aye, sir.” I paused again, gathering my thoughts and recalling the events of that awful day …
Suddenly, the Great Cabin, the panel, and the lawyers all vanished like a puff of smoke in a fresh breeze; I was there again, standing just off the quarterdeck, watching the shoreline slip by and only occasionally watching the off-duty sailors as they struggled to make some order out of the piles of stores, cordage, spare sails, yards and supplies, not only for our own use, but also for the Mediterranean Squadron which we would join upon our arrival. The civilian passengers and the group of chattering Italian musicians (their services no longer required by the American government, we were transporting them home) took up most of the remaining deck space and seemed constantly in the way, but they were enthralled with the goings-on both aboard and ashore and remained quite oblivious to the sailors’ entreaties to “… Please step aside, sir, (or ma’am) if you would.” And “… beggin’ yer pardon, sir, would you kindly step over there?”
Set to the t’gallants—that is we had almost all of our sails spread and drawing—we made a fair turn of speed down the Bay with the fresh west-southwest breeze billowing our sails out to larboard and keeping the sheets, braces, and bowlines nicely taut. Before noon we had made Lynnhaven Bay. As we approached, Henry pointed toward the starboard bow and spoke for the first time in an hour and more.
“Look there, Oliver. Looks as if the Royal Navy is fixin’ to give us a welcome!”
Indeed, when I looked past his outstretched arm, I saw, anchored, HMS Bellona, signal flags snapping in the breeze, and HMS Melampus. Beyond them, HMS Leopard also swung to her anchor.
“And you like as not can see all their ports’re open.” Henry continued to point, in case I had missed the open gunports gaping like so many missing teeth in an otherwise attractive smile.
“It’s right hot, Henry. They likely got ’em open just to get some air into the ships. We’re not at war with the British.” Hostility, at least hostility directed at an American ship, could not have been further from my mind. I watched idly as signal flags broke out from the cro’jack yard of Leopard followed by increased activity both on deck and aloft. Clearly, she had been ordered, likely by some senior officer on Bellona, to get underweigh and was complying.
By then, Chesapeake was past the Bay and only a cannon shot from the entrance to the Atlantic Ocean. As we paid off to head for the Capes of Virginia and put the wind more astern, we could feel the swells that rolled in as they gently lifted our bow, then passed under us with a sibilant hiss.
“Sir. The pilot boat is closing on us from astern.” The quartermaster called out to Captain Gordon.
Henry and I both looked and, to be sure, the rakish pilot schooner was making on us. And so too, was HMS Leopard.
“Mister Brooke,” Captain Gordon bellowed to our sailing master. “We’ll be comin’ up directly to take some speed off her. Clew up the main and fore courses, if you please. Mister Johnson, stand by to receive the schooner alongside to weather to pick up our pilot.”
I could see men scurrying aloft to the encouragement of Mister Brooke, as others, Bosun Johnsons men, opened the gate in the starboard bulwark and heaved down the heavy manropes which the pilot would use to make his way down to the considerably lower deck of the schooner sent out to fetch him. Chesapeake slowed as her sail area was reduced and a tops’1 was braced around and backed.
As the pilot schooner made our side, none aboard either vessel could miss the fifty-gun, former ship of the line, HMS Leopard, as she fairly flew by, also to weather. Her gun ports were still open.
The Virginia Capes, Henry and Charles, were now abeam larboard and starboard and, with the wind having backed around to the southeast, we were obliged to tack to avoid running onto the hard. With the fifty-gunner a musket shot off our wind’ard bow, Captain Gordon was obliged to bear off some to run under her stern, then, once past, harden up in an effort to regain the ground he had lost to weather. Leopard carried on for several minutes and then tacked, quickly regaining the ground she had lost and maintaining her windward gage.
“That’s certainly rude behavior. I wonder what could be in his mind.” Allen commented to me on the Royal Navy ship pointedly keeping to windward of us, clearly a hostile posture; normally, a vessel passing or wishing to speak another friendly ship would stay in a non-threatening leeward position.
“Not only rude, Henry, but you’ll notice her guns are run out as well. And I don’t see any tompions. I think they might be …”
“That chap is serious, gentlemen. He aims to come on board of us. Lookin’ fer his deserters, I’d warrant.” Sailing Master Brooke gave voice to the very thoughts Lieutenant Allen and I each had held unspoken. We had all heard of, and, indeed, had seen many deserters from the Royal Navy. Some scurried inland just as fast as they could to avoid the ever-present press gangs, always e
ager to collect the bounty recaptured deserters brought; others sought to get back to sea quickly, either in the United States Navy or a merchant of any convenient flag. I knew our sailors, especially those who had enjoyed past service in the Royal Navy, appreciated the kinder, more humane treatment they received as sailors under the American flag.
“Do we have any aboard, Mister Brooke?” I asked in perfect innocence. After all, I had personally recruited forty or fifty of the sailors we shipped and believed that I had signed only eligible seamen, and a few landsmen, to our muster book. I did not know whether any other recruiter might have been less vigilant.
“Cap’n Gordon asked me that very question, Mister Baldwin. I give him the same answer I’ll give you: ain’t real sure, but I know them in the rendezvous was told ‘no deserters.’” He shifted his gaze back to the British ship, growing larger and more daunting with each passing moment and pointed with his chin. “Looks like they gonna send a boat over. And they’s an officer fixin’ to tell us what it is they might be after, looks like.”
Indeed, I could see quite clearly that a gang of sailors had already swung a small boat from it’s resting place to hang over the ship’s larboard bulwark, and aft of them, an officer stood atop the rail near the quarter-deck, a hand resting on the mizzen shrouds. He raised a speaking trumpet to his face.
“Aboard Chesapeake! We have dispatches from our commander-in-chief for the commander of Chesapeake” With his position to our wind-ward, the voice floated over the water, losing not a shred of it’s hostility or sneering superiority.
There was a flurry of activity on our quarterdeck and I saw one of my messmates from the midshipman’s cockpit scurrying down the hatch, obviously to fetch the commodore who had appeared topside only once since leaving Norfolk. That had been to glass the three British warships lying in Lynnhaven Bay.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 2