In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  Now on the quarterdeck, coatless, Commodore Barron stepped to the bulwark and stared aghast at the British ship, sailing only a long pistol shot distant. A few sharp words, which I failed to hear, were offered to Captain Gordon and then the commodore, clambering atop the carriage of a quarterdeck long eighteen-pounder, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back to the British officer, “We will heave to so you can send your boat on board.” He again spoke briefly to Captain Gordon and returned to his Cabin below.

  Now our wind’ard side was lined with curious sailors, a few officers and midshipmen, and all of the passengers save a few who had retired to their cabins, already suffering the ill-effects of our being at sea. We all watched as the cutter, bearing an officer of the Royal Navy, made good time across the still calm sea toward our side.

  “Topmen aloft! Hands to stations for shortening sail!” The sailing master’s cry dissolved the group at the rail as we all moved to comply. As I stepped to the mizzen (my station for sail handling), I studied our captain for some indication of what he might be expecting. He paced side-to-side on his quarterdeck, never taking his eyes off the approaching boat. His jaw worked as though he were chewing something and his clenched fists relaxed regularly only to clench again immediately. When he turned towards me, I could see a trickle of sweat making a track down the side of his face, clearly not a result of the warm, but quite pleasant, weather. From time to time he shifted his gaze to the British man-o’-war, now hove to some sixty or seventy yards away. Without their tompions, the plugs that kept water out of the barrels, the gaping maws of her battery were plainly visible and made for a menacing look that would surely intimidate an enemy.

  Must be fixin’ to organize some gunnery practice after they deliver the dispatches to Cap’n Gordon. Good thing we’re not at war with England; the weight of that broadside would render most of our size into matchwood!

  But still, I was made uneasy by the sight of those powerful long guns, two decks of them, poking out the side of the ship right at us! Their open muzzles made for a daunting display.

  As Chesapeake heaved to, the cutter made it’s way around our transom and coasted expertly to a stop alongside the manropes to leeward. I could not help but notice that the cox’n was skilled in his trade as the small boat stopped exactly in position and in perfect concert with the frigate. As Gordon made his way forward to greet whoever it was sent from the Royal Navy ship, I watched a lieutenant step smartly onto the battens on the frigates side and climb easily to the break in the bulwark, assisted by the manropes. He and our captain arrived at almost the same moment.

  There were salutes and some stiff posturing, but, of course, from my position at the mizzen mast, I could hear not a word they spoke. Then the two officers started aft. Gordon’s gaze settled on the first midshipman he saw.

  “Mister Baldwin. Escort Lieutenant Meade of the Royal Navy to the commodore’s cabin, if you please. He has a letter for Commodore Barron.” Captain Gordon, seeing I had little to do, save gawk at the goings-on, summoned me.

  I hastened to the quarterdeck, saluted Lieutenant Meade and, with a quick, “Follow me, if you please, sir,” led him to the hatch which would take us to the gun deck immediately outside the Great Cabin. Upon which door, I knocked.

  “Commodore, sir, this is Lieutenant Meade of HMS Leopard. He has brought a letter for you, sir.”

  Barron heaved his bulk up from the chair and stood as we entered the Cabin. At something over six feet in height, he towered over the English officer, whom he greeted with a scowl and a grunt. Doctor Bullus, whom I noticed taking his ease in a comfortable chair in the quarter gallery, merely looked up, a quizzical smile in place, and remained mute.

  “Sir.” Meade began, obviously intimidated by the size of the man as well as his seniority, “I have been sent with this letter from Captain Humphreys of HMS Leopard. I believe you will find it quite reasonable. Also this copy of an order from Admiral Berkeley, our commander-in-chief on the North Atlantic Station. Captain Humphreys asked me to express his hopes that this matter could be resolved in a manner such that the harmony between our two countries might remain intact.” He thrust toward the commodore a sheaf of papers; prominent on the top, I noticed, was a folded sheet bearing a red wax seal. Not having been dismissed, I stood silently just inside the door and watched the events unfold before me.

  The commodore made a cursory appraisal of the letter and glanced down at the Royal Navy officer. “This contains a list of your deserters, Lieutenant. What possible interest could I have in the Royal Navys inability to hold on to it’s sailors?” Barron’s tone was so disarming, I was sure that Meade had been caught unprepared. Barron’s gaze returned to the documents he held and it was apparent, even to me, that his question had not required an answer.

  “Sir. As you can see, it requests me to muster your crew and determine whether or not they are in your ship.” Meade had warmed to his task; his tone was arrogant and not in the least conciliatory.

  “Midshipman … Baldwin, isn’t it?” Barron looked at me quickly. I stood stiffly to attention and nodded in silence. He went on. “Step to the quarterdeck and ask Master Commandant Gordon to join us, if you please.”

  I practically fell over myself in my haste to carry out the commodore’s bidding. In no time at all, I was back, the captain with me.

  “Captain Gordon, Lieutenant Meade, here, seems to think we have some Royal Navy deserters aboard. At least his captain does. Here is the list of them. Any familiar to you?” The commodore, now seated, thrust the paper at Gordon.

  The captain took it, his gaze never wavering from the commodores. He responded without so much as a glance at the papers he now held.

  “Sir. Most of the men have only been aboard a matter of days. We have barely assigned them stations on the watch, quarters, and station bill. I could not say whether we have any Britishers aboard. But I will say,” and here he turned from the commodore to face Lieutenant Meade full on, “that I instructed our recruiters most plainly that they were not to enlist any deserters from the Royal Navy.” As he finished speaking, he glanced at me, no doubt recalling that I had been an officer in charge of a rendezvous and responsible for the presence aboard of some forty and more of our recent arrivals.

  “Very well, Mister Gordon. I shall write a suitable response to Captain Humphreys. You may return to your duties.” As he spoke, Commodore Barron was dipping a quill and drawing a sheet of paper from the drawer of his desk.

  Gordon left, I stood silently in my place near the door, and Lieutenant Meade stood rigidly where he had been all along, in front of the desk. The scene recalled in my mind a time many years back when I had been called before the headmaster of the academy I attended in Philadelphia. I had stood at attention in front of the man’s desk while he appeared, for what seemed an eternity, not to notice me. Clearly the headmaster had been proving his great importance – and my complete lack of any to me. And so, it seemed, was the commodore.

  The silence, punctuated only by the noises of a ship hove to in a calm sea and the scratching of Barron’s pen, endured. The splash of a wave breaking against the ship’s side, the rattle of our rigging, now slack, now under a strain, and the slap of flaccid canvas offset the silence and offered a counterpoint to the “snick, snick” made by the commodore’s quill as it moved in fits and starts across the vellum.

  Barron wrote quickly, pausing often to scowl at the young man standing before him, then returning to his task. Each of the first few times Barron looked up, Meade started to extend his hand as if to take the completed letter. After several false starts, the young lieutenant simply stood still, his eyes, like my own, focused on the distorted image of the sea beyond the quarter gallery windows.

  “Come in!” Barron grunted in an annoyed response to a knock on his door.

  “Sir, Captain Gordon’s compliments, sir, and there’s a signal from Leopard. Recalling their cutter, they are. Sir.” The seaman, the messenger of the watch from the quarterdeck, stood
loosely as he moved to the motion of the ship and twisted his hat in front of him.

  “Very well, sailor. Thank you.” Barron didn’t even look up as the messenger tugged at his forelock in salute and turned to leave, then thought better of it and stopped.

  “Should I tell ’em something, sir?”

  Meade appeared discomfited by the message just delivered and answered. “I expect I should be getting back, sir. Cap’n Humphreys is not one to be kept waiting.”

  Barron continued writing. “Stand fast, Lieutenant! I am just about done here and you, and your impatient captain, shall have your answer to these outrageous demands. Allow you to muster my crew, indeed!” This last was muttered and I barely caught it. Remembering the waiting seaman, he lifted his head and, louder this time, instructed him tersely, “You may tell Mister Gordon that Lieutenant Meade will be along directly.”

  Finally, Barron put his pen in the stand, sprinkled some sand on the completed paper and stood. When he blew the excess sand off, a goodly portion of it hit the British officer.

  “Here, young man. Go back to your captain with this. I am sure it will satisfy him. Mister … Baldwin, you may escort Lieutenant Meade to his boat. And kindly ask Mister Gordon to come down on your return.” Meade followed me out the door.

  Not only would I ask Mister Gordon to come down, I would personally bring him! I had witnessed the start of this play and was most keen to see how it might finish.

  “Here is the answer I sent back, Mister Gordon.” Barron wasted no time on pleasantries when Gordon and I stepped back into the Cabin. (I kept my earlier post close by the door so as to remain as unobtrusive as I might.) “And here is a copy of their admirals order seeking return of their sailors. You will note that Admiral Berkeley has not ruled out the use of force should we not accede to his demands. I submit you ought to get your gun deck clear as their intentions seem likely to follow that course. No telling what lengths that man, Humphreys, might go to in the interest of carrying out Berkeley’s orders. And get the ship underway.”

  Gordon, his face darkening perceptibly, hastily read the British admirals orders to his subordinates. I, of course, had no idea what words were written on the papers, either by the British captain or the admiral, but they must have been some sharp to provoke the reaction they did in my two senior officers. Captain Gordon returned the several pages to the commodore and, turning, motioned to me to follow him.

  As the captain and I heard the Cabin door close behind us, he said to me, “Mister Baldwin, get the word passed to put the crew at quarters. Quietly, if you please. There will be no drum this time. No sense alerting the Brits we’re ready for them.”

  I hastened forward on the gun deck to carry out my orders, repeating to any I met, men, midshipmen, and officers, the captains instructions. I was dismayed when I heard the Marine beating his drum, calling the men to quarters as he was trained to do. I quickly silenced him which confused the men, mostly landsmen and former merchant seamen who, unlike the Marine, had never been trained in what was about to happen. Many, in fact, turned about, intent on returning to previous tasks, thinking the call to quarters to be a false alarm.

  Baggage, furniture, huge casks, and boxes littered the gun deck as completely as the spar deck, making it nearly impossible for anyone to move about freely. Finding room for the guns to move backwards against their side tackles when fired seemed hopeless, but had to be accomplished if we were to fire them and then re-load. Fortunately, we had conformed to Navy policy and all the guns had been loaded prior to our departure; it would be loading the second shot, should such a happenstance prove necessary, that presented the problem.

  “Mister Baldwin. See about getting some of this area cleared so we might fire the guns! And get some powder and shot up.” Henry Allen, my immediate superior and the one actually responsible for second division and the six guns assigned to our care on either side of the ship, shouted from across the deck as he struggled to push people and crates out of his way I noticed he wore his sword and had a pistol tucked into his belt.

  Rounding up a few men I recognized from having recruited them at Mrs. Pickney’s Rooming House and eatery in Norfolk, I directed them to wrestle the hogsheads and crates away from our guns. Another I sent to the magazine. It was then that I noticed the hawser – it had to have been our spare anchor cable—as great in girth as a man’s thigh, laid out in neat fakes behind five of my six guns, ones which would likely be on the engaged side, should it come to that. A glance told me it would be a hundred fathoms and more in length and impossible to handle. The loops of the cable made an intricate pattern of lines and curves which might have intrigued a landsman; I had no interest in the beauty of the design that lay before me, only how best to move it. Clearly, it would take a great deal of time and men to shift the cumbersome rope out of the way. Lieutenant Allen’s agitated state told me that should the British be intent on mischief, we would not have anywhere near enough time to accomplish such a Herculean task even though we might have the seamen available. I focused on the one cannon not blocked by someone’s lack of foresight in where they had stowed the cable and began personally to shove a large and heavy crate far enough away from it so when the gun fired, it might have room to recoil unimpeded.

  After some minutes of heaving and sweating, I received help in the form of two sailors who joined in my efforts and together we got the crate out of the way and began to wrestle another to a spot clear of the gun carriage. Around us, the confusion of shouted orders, curses, and efforts to clear the deck swirled in a cacophony of chaos. Many of the men had no idea of where they were supposed to be, let alone what to do once there. They milled about, their questioning shouts to equally confounded ship-mates adding to the ruckus and confusion.

  “Mister Baldwin!” I heard Henry’s voice above the din. I looked up and saw him closer, but still struggling to make his way through the tangle of stores and men to where I was engaged in my exertions. “Powder horns, Mister Baldwin! Hang it all! We will need powder horns. Fetch them up from the magazine, if you please.”

  Lieutenant Allen’s outburst gave a clear indication of his agitated state; like Captain Decatur, he is not one given easily to blaspheming. I threw a sloppy salute at my superior and, dodging the knots of confused, milling sailors that seemed to choke the entire deck, ran as quickly as I could through the litter to the first hatch that would take me down three decks to the magazine.

  The confusion there, if possible, was worse than I had found on the gun deck. A ragged queue of powder monkeys, boys, and aggravated sailors pushed and shoved, shouting to Gunner Hook, each other, and any in earshot, that they needed “… powder horns, gunner. A few bags as well.”

  And “… powder here, Gunner. Mister Aldrich sent me and he ain’t one to suffer any tarryin’!”

  “Cartridges, Gunner. And quick! Ain’t none topside. Them Brits gonna be shootin’ at us quicker ’an ever.”

  Shoving worried and angry sailors out of my way, I struggled to get close to the magazine. With the help of my uniform, I gained a position at the front, stunned at what I saw there.

  The gunner was quite confounded. He stood back from the door and well into the magazine, away from the waving hands that reached toward him. He held a powder horn in one hand and, on a rude table to the side, an open cask of black powder stood. Empty horns littered the table and the deck. A few felt bags, empty, lay in rumpled uselessness behind him near an open barrel of powder, a scoop showing at the top. His white face, vacant stare, and slack jaw gave testimony to the horror he felt at not having made up cartridges for the cannons and filled powder horns to use for priming them.

  I yelled at him. “Gunner! Gunner! Fill that horn and give it to me. Now! HOOK! DO IT!”

  I would never have dared to speak to Gunner Tarbox in Argus with that tone of voice, but then, Tarbox would never have been caught so ill-prepared.

  The man looked at me and took a step backwards. Suddenly he fixed his eyes upon me, a flicker of recognition
in them. His hands shook and, as though he were a trapped animal seeking escape, he frantically shifted his gaze from the horn he held, to the small cask before him, then back to me. It seemed an age before his desperate look gave way to understanding and, as if working under water, his hand moved toward the cask. As he pulled the plug from the horn with his teeth, his eyes, wide and unblinking, again met mine and he started to pour the powder from the cask.

  “Yes, Gunner. That’s it. Fill it right up and then another. Quickly.” I tried to sound encouraging, mask the terror I felt at being alongside a fifty-gun ship which might begin firing at us from pistol-shot range at any moment. The man turned to his task, the tip of his tongue replacing the horns plug between his teeth, as he concentrated on not spilling the powder. In my mind, images of Gunner Tarbox, with the great booming voice and his orderly magazine on Argus, overlaid what was before me. In my days in Argus, I didn’t appreciate the imposing gunner; now I would have given anything for the terrifying Tarbox to materialize and hand me a powder horn!

  After an eternity, during which I was jostled and shoved without regard to my rank, Hook stuck out a great paw grasping two filled powder horns. Swatting and elbowing away the other grasping hands seeking to grab the precious horns, my precious powder horns, I managed to seize them, incurring the voluble outrage of my competitors, and press them to my chest. Then I fought my way through the mob, grown larger now as more gun captains and officers recognized our dangerous situation, and struggled to the ladder, proud of my success. I surely would not have dared to act in so ungentlemanly a fashion in Argus or Enterprise! But as a still untested youngster in those days, I had yet to experience the devastation and terror of cannon fire at close range.

  Hardly had I regained the gun deck, when Captain Gordon himself appeared, heading for the hatch I had just left.

  BOOM! BOOM! The sound of cannons discharging was as loud as if they had been fired from our own ship. Leopard, now some sixty yards to weather of us, had fired on us! We were not at war with England, or anyone else for that matter. What could they be thinking? We all ducked instinctively, holding our collective breath as we waited for the crash and splintering of wood as the two iron balls— were they twenty-four-pounders?—found their mark. For that brief moment, a sudden and exquisite silence rang throughout the gun deck.