Not a soul spoke or even moved for a space of several heartbeats. Then, from somewhere in the middle of the ranks of sailors, came a shout. “Three cheers for Cap’n Decatur!”
Lusty huzzahs rose to the heavens as the men and officers acknowledged our commander’s prognostication.
And then, it might have been from the same voice, “Three cheers for Chesapeake!”
Without the same gusto, but nonetheless spirited, a further cheer resounded throughout the spardeck, evoking a genuine smile from our captain.
“Mister Rowe, dismiss the men to their watches and duties. We will go to quarters following the midday meal.” Decatur nodded in response to the first lieutenant’s salute, turned away from the rail and, with a look aloft ensuring himself that all sails were drawing perfectly, disappeared down the hatch to his cabin.
Lieutenant Allen and I were assigned to stand our watches together and now, clear of the confines of restricted and shoal waters, we took our positions on the quarterdeck, relieving the first lieutenant. After conferring briefly with the first lieutenant, Henry passed the word for our sailing master and bosun.
“We will be shaking out courses, and the for’ard stays’ls, Mister Cheever. Bosun Kelly, you will see to assisting him in that pursuit. Let us see just how competent, for all their training, is our crew.”
A quick “Aye, sir.” from each of them before they turned almost together and in one voice bellowed, “Sail handlers to stations. Topmen aloft. Look lively now. Stand by to make sail.”
The bosun, a man given more to action than to instruction, appeared as if by magic on the spardeck, grabbing and shoving sailors to positions for loosing the big lower sails on the main and foremasts, while the sailing master exhorted the topmen aloft more quickly. These were supposed to be seasoned seamen, but in Cheever’s mind, they were little better than farmhands who had never gone to sea. And he let them know it!
“Men at stations, sir.” Cheever’s voice carried clearly to the quarterdeck, and in response, Henry waved his arm. He turned to the two men at the big wheel, voicing a quiet order which would make the sails fill more quickly.
“Bring her head down a point, if you please, Quartermaster. Keep her at south, a quarter east.”
As the frigate’s bow bore away from the wind a few degrees, and to a great measure of shouting and calling, (I was able to hear distinctly only the command to “let loose the brails”) the courses dropped from their spars almost at the same moment, billowing out in the cool breeze. And flapping madly in unrestrained freedom.
“Sheets and braces, haul. Look alive, you lubbers; it ain’t no different than you done a hunnert times at the pier! Lay back on them sheets, for’ard, there.” Between the bosun and Mister Cheever bellowing orders, shoving slow-to-react sailors to their tasks, and, in the case of the bosun, starting a few of the even slower ones with a sharp whack from the hempen quirt he seemed to have always at hand, the sails were successfully controlled and sheeted home. With a great whoomp, the fore-course caught the wind and filled. The main course followed a heartbeat later as the haulers on the main sheet seemed just a trifle slower than their mates forward. The maindeck watch, after securing them properly, dropped the sheets and ran across the deck. Then, picking up the braces, they heaved the yards around to properly position the sails for their best efficiency. It had not taken nearly as long as I had expected, in spite of the additional confusion created by the bellowing and physicality exhibited by both warrants.
Sailing Master Cheever announced his satisfaction with the way the sails were drawing as he yelled to his crew, “Tie off the clew lines and bunts. Make fast and coil ‘em down. Secure your sheets and braces.”
I had seen a great deal more confusion on Argus when we first attempted this and said as much to Henry.
“I reckon all that training Mister Rowe put us all through at the pier paid off. Doesn’t appear any got hurt, and the courses are set! I ‘spect some of it was just out of the fear of Kelly, but seemed like most had some idea of what they were about.”
Henry, his face set in a frown at the sloppy execution of his order, merely glanced at me, deepened his frown and bellowed for Cheever to come to the quarterdeck.
“Mister Cheever, Mister Baldwin and I are of the opinion that we have yet to see a sloppier job of making sail than what we just witnessed. It might be understandable had the men not been drilled to death in the same task while secure in port. Even the topmen—experienced all, I recall?—seemed reluctant to act smartly. See to correcting that, if you please. And perhaps your topmen and haulers will do better with the stays’ls.”
I was some surprised to be included in the aspersion Henry had cast; I had thought it went fairly well, considering.
“Mister Allen,” I began when the sailing master had retreated to the safety of the waist, “was that not a trifle harsh? The men are mostly new to their tasks and will, I am sure, improve as they get more used to the ship being at sea.”
“I am most surprised that you, of all people, would give voice to that opinion. Were you not aboard last June? I seem to recall you were. Being ill-prepared then cost us dearly.” He paused, scowling as the memory of that frightful day flooded into both our heads. Then he went on. “I, for one, do not intend on that happening again. Neither, I suspect, does Cap’n Decatur.” Henry’s glare at my comment suppressed any further effort at conversation and I took myself away to stand by the quartermasters handling the wheel and watched as Cheever directed the setting of the for’ard stays’ls. To my mind, successfully accomplished and, apparently even to the satisfaction of Lieutenant Allen, as the maneuver evoked no further comment from my watch officer.
The remainder of our watch went uneventfully, but quietly. Henry and I were both lost in our own thoughts. I suspected that those thoughts were not too far apart from each other. One could not sail this course without remembering our departure just ten months earlier. I noticed my watch lieutenant glassing the quite empty anchorage in Lynnhaven Bay as we drew near to it. I had thought of squinting through my own long glass too, until I remembered that Mister Jefferson’s government had issued a prohibition against British ships using American waters. I wondered idly whether Henry might have hoped to see some foreign flags exhibited so as to have an opportunity to repay the kindness offered us by HMS Leopard last summer.
The embargo President Jefferson had designed was meant as a peaceful coercion of Britain into an admission of their guilt and responsibility for the unprovoked attack on our ship by denying them a market for their own manufactured goods. In turn, the order also denied them access to our American agricultural product, something Jefferson and his advisors evidently thought would bring to a speedy conclusion the languishing negotiations over what was now universally referred to as the Chesapeake Leopard Affair, so dubbed by the newspapers.
I had heard our first lieutenant discussing the result of the action with the captain only days before our departure. And both he and Decatur were confounded by the provisions of such a far-reaching law.
“Were they simply to close off trade with England, it might have made some sense, but I can not, for the life of me, understand why the president would shut off trade with any foreign country. Seems like Americans are likely to suffer the worst punishment on that score.” Rowe’s words echoed in my head as I took in the result of that edict in the quiet, undisturbed waters of Lynnhaven Bay.
Decatur’s response was unemotional and characteristically pointed. “I imagine they’ll get around to changing it soon’s the merchants in Massachusetts, New York, and Charleston make a loud enough ruckus. But those same merchants’ll try to figure a way around it afore they start howlin’ and that’s going to be why we’re going to sea; to stop the violators. And that’s what I intend to do, much as it pains me to intercept American ships. But there will be a spate of smuggling and similar nefarious practices all aimed at getting our cargoes out and theirs in; but it’s against the law and they’re further compounding the wron
g by paying no customs duties.”
After he started to walk away, the captain turned and said to Rowe, “I have a copy of the new Embargo Laws which I will see you get before we sail. I would suggest a thorough reading. Might as well have the officers read ‘em too.”
The laws Decatur mentioned had yet to find their way to the cockpit, but they had provoked any number of discussions among it’s residents, none of whom were in any way knowledgeable about the provisions our government had established. But that seemed not to limit any of us from expressing our views (or rather parroting the views offered both pro and con by the newspapers)!
“Mister Baldwin, I am your relief, sir.” Silas Taggart’s nasal voice brought me back to the quarterdeck and, turning, I saw his unruly sandy hair being blown about by the breeze as he stood, hat doffed, waiting for me to return his salute. Which I did.
Though Henry had said little to me following our disagreement on the abilities of our sail handlers, he now surprised me by suggesting I might join him in the gunroom for the midday dinner and a glass.
“That would be a pleasure, sir. And most appreciated.” I responded, perhaps more formally than I might have, but I was still stinging from his earlier sharp rebuke.
“You’re not still smarting over a bit of mild chastisement, are you, Oliver?” Henry actually looked surprised as he paused in his path to the hatch.
“I would have thought it to be unnecessary, Mister Allen. I would have maintained, given the opportunity, that encouragement was more likely to be effective with the men than invective.” I was remembering words of Captain Decatur himself in Argus.
“As I mentioned then, Oliver, and will do so again, as perhaps you failed to understand me, we can not allow to happen again what happened in June. The men—and the officers, particularly that fool Gordon, not to mention the commodore—went to sea and got caught quite with their pants down and nothing to do about it. I was aboard and was partially responsible, as were you, I might offer. I, for one, will not be a party to anything of that stripe ever again. And if that means being a bit harder on the men and warrants, and yes , even the midshipmen, then so be it. Perhaps some time in the future, you might even thank me.
“Now, would you still care to join me for a glass and some dinner in the officers’ mess?” He did not smile, but neither did he scowl at me.
“I would, sir. And thank you.” I was still suffering slightly from previous wounds to my pride, a fact not lost on Henry.
“Oh, grow up, Oliver. You’ve been going to sea too long and experienced too much to be upset over a bit of chastisement. Now get yourself together and I shall expect you in the gunroom promptly at a half after one.” My friend and mentor turned away and began to descend the ladder to the gundeck, effectively ending the discussion. I decided to stay topside for a bit, watching the shore slip past and collecting my thoughts, which seemed, unbidden, to turn to that dreadful June day and all that had occurred, and my, and Henry’s, role in the horrific events then and after.
As two bells sounded the hour of one o’clock, I turned from the bulwark with a resolve to “grow up” as Henry had admonished me to and do my best to succeed in this commission without further antagonism, between Henry and me or anyone else.
My mates in the cockpit were already seated around our table laughing and chatting seemingly with nary a care in the world. None, I perceived had given a moment’s thought to our previous departure through these waters; as for me, I could still hear the awful thump and crunch of Leopard’s twenty-four-pound shot slamming into our sides and the cries and screams of my shipmates as they fell, some dying and some— perhaps the less fortunate ones—only wounded and facing the dubious skills of our surgeon, from the frightful splinters that flew indiscriminately from the ruined bulwarks and decks.
My arrival created a brief pause in the hilarity; Belcher, from his seat at the table’s head inquired as to my wants and merely raised an eyebrow at my announcement of my dining plans. I noted that his participation in the jocularity of his mates seemed reserved and understood, without a word between us, that our passage evoked memories for him that were similar to mine. I smiled at him, shot a glance upward and received a confirming nod from him. He returned to the conversation at table and I stepped into my cubicle to change my uniform and wash my face.
Dinner in the gunroom was usually a most enjoyable experience; it also gave me a taste of my life after my promotion came through. Henry was welcoming with no hint of rancor or disapproval of my earlier comments. His mates were equally friendly and conversation centered on inane pleasantries as the food was served out. Henry poured me a glass of quite acceptable claret and standing, proposed a toast.
“To a successful commission and may we constantly be vigilant.”
“Success and vigilance!”
“Aye, success and vigilance!”
His toast was echoed around the table by each of us and we drank in the hopes his prognostication would be true.
“Oliver. Did I not hear your father was ill? He is the cabinet maker what does the furnishings of some of our naval vessels, is he not? I trust his illness was none too serious or, God forbid, life-endangering.” Lieutenant Dunne, next to the first lieutenant the most senior of our officers, spoke to me from across the table.
“Yes sir. That is, no, sir. He was not ill, but injured quite cruelly in an accident. And yes, sir; he is a cabinet maker who has done quite a measure of work for the Navy at the yard in Philadelphia. Thank you for asking.”
“Well, I do hope the injury will not prevent him from continuing his craft. His work has always been of the first character. I had the pleasure of seeing some of it first hand in our Humphreys-built frigate United States when I sailed in her as a midshipman under Barry in the Indies. Back in ‘99, it was. As you are no doubt aware, she was laid down in Philadelphia and commissioned well before your time, in mid-’97, I recall. A fine ship she was. Too bad she is laid up in ordinary. A worthy vessel and sound, she is.”
“Actually, sir, he is back at his bench now. I received a letter from my mother before we sailed which reported that he has built himself a chair with wheels under it to get around in his shop as he is unable to stand for any useful amount of time. And I know he was hoping for further orders from the Navy, but it would seem that President Jefferson has little use for …” I swallowed the end of my thought, realizing as I did so, that I had already done the damage expressing my views (and certainly, those of my brother) concerning the policy of gunboats which Edward, unhappily, was helping to build even now.
“You needn’t concern yourself with that issue around me, Oliver. I quite agree. Those puny little harbor defense boats he has ordered built will never replace a frigate or, for that matter, even a brig or schooner. Can’t go offshore and as far as chasing a smuggler, couldn’t get after one if Jefferson himself ordered it! And God Himself couldn’t help us if we ever went to war with them as our Navy!” Dunne gave me a crooked smile that seemed a bit wistful. Obviously he was a believer in fighting ships! I returned his smile, saying nothing, but noting that I had an ally.
“I say, Mister Baldwin.” A booming voice from the other end of the table caused a pause in the conversation and me to turn toward it’s source. Lieutenant Peter Stoll, a newly acquired addition to our compliment and only barely senior to Henry Allen, was looking at me, quite unaware that his tone was over-loud.
“Sir?” I responded, quietly.
“Are you not soon to stand for your lieutenancy? I was of the impression that you would be joining our mess here in the gunroom imminently. Has something occurred, a transgression of some stripe, perhaps, to forestall that eventuality?” Stoll’s voice dropped not a whit. And neither had the undercurrent of conversation begun again, so all heard—indeed they could not have missed—his interrogatory. Much to my chagrin. I thought for a moment before I responded.
“I would imagine my promotion will come when the Navy Department deems it appropriate, sir. As to the last, I h
ave no idea of any crime I might have committed to change my seniority. Sir.” My tone, I am sure, betrayed my distaste for his line of conversation.
“Well,” he continued, paying little attention to any underlying meaning I might have had, “I am certain it can’t be far off; I have it on quite good authority that you are a fine hand and ready for your rise in grade and responsibility.”
How does he know anything about me? He only came aboard the ship a fortnight before we sailed. And why would he be concerned about a promotion that might or might not be coming to me in the future?
“Thank you, sir.” I said, graciously. Ungraciously, I thought, you are barely out of the cockpit your own self’. How dare you patronize me?
The meal continued with the usual buzz of several simultaneous conversations, none of which now included me. I had time to reflect on any number of things, including Stall’s remark. Had I committed some sin that would delay — or even worse, preclude — my promotion? I could think of nothing I had done, and certainly not here on Chesapeake.
“Baldwin. I say, Baldwin!” Stoll again. I jerked my head around to meet his gaze. Whereupon he put a half smile on his face, stopped chewing and, after tucking a mouthful of something into his cheek, asked, “What can you tell us about our captain? I know you sailed with him in the action against those heathens of the Barbary Coast. Anything to offer us about how he thinks or what we might expect from him on this commission?” Stoll finished by expanding his smile, allowing a goodly portion of whatever he had previously stowed in his cheek to make an appearance. I noticed that most of the conversation had ceased, as if all present were awaiting my response.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 14