In Pursuit of Glory

by William H. White

  “Oliver … Oliver! Are you still with us, man? I said, ‘Where is your brother now? I assume he survived the deprivations of the dungeon in Tripoli?” Lieutenant Ripley studied me with hooded eyes, perhaps a bit beguiled by a surfeit of the wine which had flowed quite liberally during the meal.

  “Oh sorry, sir. I was thinking on something else. Yes, Edward was released with the rest of the Philadelphias and returned home in the fail of 1805. We were both given extended leaves as the Navy had no need for either of us right then. It was after I was ordered here, to Chesapeake, in the spring of last year, that he received orders to New York Navy Yard. Building gunboats under Cap’n Chauncey, I believe.” I stopped, remembering Edwards reaction to his orders, and our parents joy at his apparently “safe” assignment.

  Realizing both lieutenants were waiting for me to continue, I went on. “Yes, that is what they were doing there, building gunboats for our harbor defenses, same as in Rhode Island. Edward was not happy to be engaged in such shore-bound employment, and more than a little bit envious of my orders to a frigate; he would have much preferred being at sea. But, as he pointed out when we both were home over Christmastide, I appeared to be doing little better!”

  That brought a laugh from my colleagues and after several more rounds of wine—now a thick, heady and aromatic port that recalled for me some I had consumed in Gibraltar—were bought and consumed, we made our way back to the navy yard and our unlucky ship. Whereupon I unsteadily removed my clothes, donned my nightshirt, and retired to my cot. Where, ultimately, the Dream again found me.

  Running through the days events seemed to relieve my angst and chase the horrifying images that had awakened me an hour and more before. I rose from the cockpit table, shed my coat and climbed back into my cot, wondering what the new days testimony would reveal as I fell back into a mercifully dreamless sleep, ignoring, in my fatigued and still modestly intoxicated state, the cold and damp bed clothes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Cabin was beginning to fill with the participants in the trial as well as spectators curious as to what this second day of testimony might reveal. As ordered, Henry and I had taken seats in the back of the Cabin among the growing number of civilian and naval men who had developed an interest in the proceedings. Although Allen’s experience in courts marital was nearly as scant as my own, he seemed able to answer most of my whispered questions as we waited for the court to be called to order. My latest query wondered at the wisdom of including civilians in what was clearly a Navy matter.

  “Likely on account of the Navy Secretary wantin’ someone who ain’t biased like Decatur and Rodgers to do the prosecutin’, Oliver, and who has the lawyerly skills to keep ’em on course. And Barron, I would reckon, wanted someone good enough to keep him from the brig or the noose. Better a civilian magistrate or lawyer than some navy …” His whispered, but sardonic answer was cut off by Rodgers’ gavel.

  The dull thud of a forward gun, the call to order by the president, and the second day of James Barron’s court martial began. As the proceedings were still new and exciting for me, I hung on every word and studied closely those participants I could see. I noticed that Mister Tazewell was more animated today and moved differently than he had yesterday; quite obviously, he was not suffering from the same “hot copper” he had earlier experienced at the start of the trial. Mister Taylor and his client each wrote furiously, as they had during most of the previous session. The annoying scritch, scritch of their quills, initially quite audible in the silence of the room, quickly blended with other background noises and faded.

  After the opening remarks and an inquiry about witnesses being present, Rodgers had inquired of Taylor whether or not he wished to further question Lieutenant Allen.

  “Just a few items to go over, Captain, if you please. Won’t take more than a few minutes.” Taylor, it occurred to me, smiled for the first time as he made his request; the forced friendliness seemed incongruous and particularly ingratiating. Henry was summarily called to the chair.

  “Lieutenant Allen,” Taylor began immediately Henry’s bottom had settled into the seat, “I would like your opinion of the condition of the ship after she had suffered those several devastating broadsides from the English vessel. Was she fit to continue the engagement or was she, and her men, too cruelly wounded to respond? And please be good enough to also address her ability to sail, sir.”

  Henry collected his thoughts and shot a glance at the commodore before he answered. Whether or not it occurred to him that he, and I, had answered the same question yesterday seemed not to matter. “The frigate was sore wounded, sir. Especially aloft and, as we later discovered, her ability to handle any significant amount of sail, was severely curtailed. The shrouds were badly cut up and lifts and ties shot through. All three masts had been wounded, the mizzen the worst. In her hull, she was wounded to the point of taking water, but not to the extent that would deprive us the ability to return fire.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. And how would you describe the condition of Commodore Barron when you saw him after the firing had stopped? Was he cowering or standing in a posture of command? Was he giving orders? Did he have control of the situation?”

  Again Henry paused and thought before he responded. And again, he shot a look toward Barron, who now studied the lieutenant with a baleful stare.

  “Commodore Barron was standing on the quarterdeck, sir. He seemed not to notice that his own person had suffered damage, but studied the progress of the work being done to free the men trapped under the spars and rigging that had fallen to the deck. He directed their activity and also ordered a boat lowered and crewed, the boat that shortly carried Lieutenant Smith and myself to Leopard.” Henry’s voice hardened and his whole person seemed to stiffen as he uttered this last part.

  “And Captain Gordon, Lieutenant; how was he responding to all of this?” Taylor pressed Henry for more detail of that frightful afternoon.

  “I don’t recall what the captain was doing. I believe he was also on the quarterdeck, but I don’t have any memory of what he might have been involved in. The commodore was clearly in command.”

  “Thank you, Mister Allen. I think that will answer my needs for now. You may step down, sir.” And Taylor smiled again.

  Tazewell, on direction of the president, called his next witness and the process repeated itself throughout the day. We did get a short recess for dinner early in the afternoon watch. And so it went, questions repeated and answered, in seemingly endless procession.

  That had been some three weeks ago and, on most of the following days, we had heard a succession of the ship’s officers and midshipmen, even a few of the seamen and petty officers, testify, answering questions about where they were, the condition of the ship, the condition and spirit of the commodore, and who might have known we had British deserters in the frigate. It had all become quite repetitious and both Henry and I were often finding excuses to be elsewhere. But today held the promise of interest for us. After a waning level of participation by the spectators, today’s gallery was very nearly full; clearly, others felt as we did.

  And one could feel the tension in the expectant crowd; whispering, gestures, and knowing glances bespoke a significance to the day’s testimony. Certainly, Henry and I were eager to see what would happen when the captain took the witness chair.

  I was surprised to notice that, while the gallery was fraught with the excitement of anticipation, the others, the daily communicants, if you will, seemed unmoved by the prospect of hearing Gordon’s version of the attack and the events that led up to it. Each man looked much the same as every day before; some wrote, or scribbled on bits of paper, or talked in subdued tones among themselves. Rodgers and Decatur chatted quietly, perhaps sharing an amusing anecdote that caused them both to smile. James Lawrence, today gesturing with motions that could only be describing the maneuvering of two ships, talked with Judge Advocate Tazewell. Perhaps he was explaining how Leopard had come up to weather of us last June
, or perhaps how the tiny Intrepid had made the side of the captured Philadelphia. And, as on every day previous, Commodore Barron was deep in conversation with Robert Taylor, referring frequently to writing in several papers he shuffled on the table before them. Taylor nodded frequently and mumbled incoherently as Barron pointed to this and that line on the vellum sheets.

  The dull thud of the bow chaser that fired a half-charge of powder to announce the start of the day’s proceedings was followed quickly by Rodgers’ gavel, stopping the buzz and hum of the several conversations quite abruptly.

  So abruptly that the commodore was caught short in his own deep discussion with his lawyer. He had been speaking a bit louder than a whisper to be heard over the shifting of chairs and murmured conversations and seemed not to notice that the room had gone silent, except for him.

  “… and be sure to question him closely on that. The man is an incompetent rascal, out to get me.” The commodore’s voice filled the Cabin and, when he realized that he alone had continued speaking, he shut his mouth and clenched his teeth as he looked around the room, obviously seeking someone. Taylor nodded and patted the commodore’s sleeve in most patronizing (I thought) way.

  “We are in order. Judge Advocate, are all persons who are required to be in attendance present?” John Rodgers directed his question to the haughty Mister Tazewell.

  Tazewell rose, drew himself up to his full six foot height and stood to attention. “Sir. All those called are present. Either in the court or just outside. Sir.” His tone seemed almost bored; after all, he had been asked the same question every day of the trial and had given the same answer each time. Then he sat, folding himself into the straight chair much the way a long-legged bird might settle onto its nest.

  A brief conversation ensued between Decatur and Rodgers and then the latter spoke, again to Tazewell.

  “Call Master Commandant Charles Gordon, if you please.”

  A brief stir among the spectators, occasioned by craning necks, shifting chairs, and hushed comments, won the rap of the president’s gavel, and silence and decorum returned. A moment later, Captain Gordon strode into the Cabin, marching straight to the witness chair. He was sworn and seated. This was what had brought Henry and me to sit in the back of the room today and we both, like most others, leaned forward so as not to miss a word of what was said.

  “Mister Gordon, you were commanding the United States frigate Chesapeake in June of 1807?” Rodgers wasted no time in getting right down to business.

  This was not the captain’s trial; he had been called to testify as a witness in Barron’s court martial and would receive his own separate trial next. As would each of the others accused.

  After Gordon answered Rodgers’ question in the affirmative, the president offered something that quite surprised me.

  “Should you be asked a question you feel might incriminate you or otherwise serve to work against your own case in this matter, Mister Gordon, you may decline to answer it. Further, should I feel you would be ill-advised to answer, I will so inform you. And the court will infer nothing from it in the case before us. Do you understand?”

  I was astounded! I elbowed Henry and whispered as loudly as I dared, “What does that mean? How can they not infer the man thinks himself guilty if he fails to answer? Won’t they …”

  “Hush, Baldwin! I’ll explain it afterwards. Listen to what Gordon has to say.” Henry’s tone, even in a whisper, left no room for further discourse.

  Rodgers had asked the captain about Barron attending the frigate in Washington, and I ‘hushed’ as he answered.

  “… from the Washington Navy Yard, sir. The commodore had come aboard prior to our departure, but then left to return to Hampton while we sailed the frigate and our passengers down the Potomac.”

  “Was the trip down river uneventful, Mister Gordon?” This from Decatur.

  I was not surprised to notice that Gordon colored some at the question.

  “Uh … hardly, sir. It was fraught with difficulty; we were some sixty or seventy men short in the crew and those we had were mostly landsmen. During a stop in Alexandria, their inexperience resulted in an accident with the foreyard which killed two and cruelly wounded a third.”

  Rodgers now nodded his head at Judge Advocate Tazewell who continued the questions.

  “Why had you stopped at Alexandria, sir? Is it not but a two hundred mile trip from Washington to the Hampton Roads?”

  Gordon looked at Tazewell with an obvious contempt, one of a seafarer to the questions of a shore bound lawyer, and a civilian at that. “As you likely are unaware, sir, there is a bar at the mouth of the Eastern Branch over which I had to bring the ship. With a full complement of stores and our main battery in place we would have been unable to clear it, so shallow is the water even at a full tide. Alexandria is the first place one might stop to take aboard that which we had been forced to leave behind in the interest of our draft. I had arranged for some of our battery and the stores to be shipped overland to that port, while the remainder of the cannon were sent on directly to Norfolk. I also used the stop to finish some carpentry work left undone by the Navy Yard.”

  “But, Mister Gordon, had not a goodly part of your stores already been placed aboard … or carried in one of your boats?” Tazewell pressed.

  “Even with a light ship, one without her battery, we ran on shore during the forenoon watch and had to lighten her further to haul her off. That, sir, is why some of our stores were in the boats.” Gordon spoke quietly through a set jaw.

  “So, after several days there, in Alexandria, you made the balance of the journey without incident?”

  Now is when the trouble will begin. “Without incident,” indeed! We had hardly begun!

  “No, Mister Tazewell, it was not ‘without incident’ We had an outbreak of a sickness which laid low nearly eighty-five of my sailors, causing us to be even further shorthanded. Those men remained on the sick list for the entire trip.”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “It is customary for a vessel passing below Mount Vernon to fire a sixteen gun salute to the late president.” I was sure everyone knew this, but Gordon’s tone clearly indicated he did not expect his inquisitor to be included in that group.

  “I am well aware of that, Mister Gordon. And did Chesapeake fire her requisite salute? Without undue difficulty?” Tazewell appeared to enjoy his role as the cause of Captain Gordon’s discomfort.

  “Gunner Hook had overfilled the flannel cartridge bags with powder; about half of them would not fit into the guns. Others had swollen from the dampness and could not be rammed home. About half of our wads were made to the wrong caliber as well and were quite useless. I ordered him arrested and confined for later court martial. We did, however, fire the salute from the cartridges and wads that could be used. In so doing, we discovered that some major share of our powder was bad, quite unusable; it might have been over a half of it. I am told that we received it from the Navy yard in an unusable state. It was shortly thereafter that Seaman Winslow fell overboard and drowned.

  “Several days later, we took aboard our passengers, Doctor Bullus and his family and staff, and Marine Captain Hall and his wife, causing us to stop yet again. They were to travel with us to the Mediterranean. Doctor Bullus, I might mention, was unable to restore any of my stricken sailors to robust health. Indeed, one of them shortly passed over. With the water at our location being shallow, we were obligated once more to delay our voyage while we buried the unfortunate ashore.

  “Further down the river, some forty miles from the Navy Yard, we ran aground yet again, Lieutenant Allen not having trimmed the ship properly, in spite of my orders to ensure a proper bow-heavy posture.”

  Henry, beside me in the chairs set out for the spectators, grew suddenly rigid, his face coloring. I felt, rather than saw, his fists clench and his upper arms, indeed, his whole body, become coiled, tense.

  The captain continued his narrative of the trip down the Potomac without further
mention of my friend, who gradually returned to a posture of ease. “After kedging her off, we anchored, as there was no wind and a making tide. During that night, five sailors took a boat and deserted the ship. I sent a crew of Marines after them in the jolly boat and, while they recovered the stolen boat, they were unable to locate the deserters. And their own boat crew ran as well.” Gordon stopped, as if overwhelmed by his own bad luck. He seemed to be slumped in the chair, a marked contrast to the tall, straight figure he made at the start. He took a breath and, in a quieter voice, continued. “Two more of the sick passed over just before we had gained Hampton Roads. As we were, at the time, in sufficiently deep water, they were buried at sea with the usual ceremony. We anchored in Hampton Roads during the first dog watch on four June. It was a hellish ride we had, sir. Just hellish.” Gordon had lost his spirit; I would have expected him to explain ‘dog watch’ to the judge advocate.

  “Mister Gordon.” One of the lieutenants on the court martial panel spoke out. And received a sour look from our judge advocate for doing so. “Was Commodore Barron not aboard during any of this ill-starred passage down the Potomac?”

  “No, Lieutenant. As I mentioned, he had left the ship for Hampton before we left the Washington Navy Yard. He returned aboard two days after we made the Roads. Doctor Bullus, along with his entourage and Missus Hall went ashore there, preferring the accommodations at an inn to those aboard the frigate.” Gordon spoke up, only mildly irritated that he should be asked to repeat himself.

  Tazewell waited a moment for further comment from the panel, moving his stare from one member to the next. When he realized that there would be nothing further from the officers judging the trial, he began his own prepared string of questions. “Mister Gordon, what work remained to be done in order for Chesapeake to depart and carry out her … your commission? And was it accomplished?”