We turned sharply to starboard at a place called Washington Square and I heard our driver mention to us that we were now on Clarke Street, our destination just ahead. He slowed as we joined a queue of other carriages waiting to discharge their cargoes of ladies and gentlemen of Newport society. The horses stamped and snorted their displeasure at being reined in.
We mids craned our necks to watch the proceedings ahead of us as our carriage followed the line toward a large house, obviously the site of the ball, on the corner beyond us. Finally, about a pistol shot from the walkway to the house, the officers’ began to alight from their carriage, and we followed on directly, disembarking where we were, rather than waiting for the carriage to pull up to the walk.
I now had an unobstructed view of the grand dwelling where we would spend our evening. The building was stone of a pinkish hue; three stories tall, it boasted a railed flat area at it’s top, presumably where one could stand and watch the ships coming and going in the harbor below us. Two broad chimneys, one at each end of the structure, reached up higher still, giving the whole a most symmetrical and imposing appearance.
Following the line of gentry, we Chesapeakes gained the walkway and stood behind our officers, led by Captain Decatur, as they moved toward the gaping front door. There, I assumed, introductions were being made along with the social niceties to be expected in such an opulent setting.
“Oliver, who are the people what live here? I can’t remember what Mister Rowe told us.” Taylor Scott whispered to me.
“Vernon is their name, Taylor. He was a banker here in Newport, but left during the time the British occupied the city. Came back after the war. I think Rowe told us that he got heaved over the standing part of the foresheet a few years back and now his son—I can’t remember his name—owns the house. I reckon we’ll meet him directly.”
More and more carriages, some quite grand, had pulled up in the street, discharging their cargoes of well-decorated gentlemen and ladies who, amid quietly dignified greetings to one another, strolled in our wake toward the house; unlike some of us, they all seemed quite comfortable in this elegant setting. We surely were going to mix with the cream of Newport society!
The Chesapeakes followed astern of our captain, who, I must say, looked as splendid as any in his full-dress uniform, complete with the sword awarded him by the Congress of the United States for his brilliant and heroic action in the Tripoli Wars. Our officers were next, in line by seniority, and we midshipmen brought up the rear of the flotilla. We maintained a sense of decorum, having been admonished by Mister Rowe that unseemly behavior would be dealt with harshly.
A polite burst of applause greeted Decatur as he approached the entry-way, obviously recognized by the ladies and gentlemen in attendance. I craned my neck, peering around my colleagues, to watch what would happen and to see how the captain greeted the beautifully decorated civilians in the doorway, whom I took for our hosts. While I certainly expected no applause to greet me, or any other of us, I wanted to watch what he did so as not to embarrass myself when introduced to the fine folks of Newport. He bowed to the ladies and shook the hand of several men as, I assumed, they were introduced to each other. Captain Decatur lingered in his handclasp with an older gentleman who wore a colorful sash of some type across his chest. The captain spent considerable time talking with this chap, clearly more than a simple greeting would consume, and then stepped back into the doorway. He drew Rowe aside and spoke to him.
My interest in the goings on ahead of me waned, and Mallory and I were engaged in quiet conversation as we waited in the queue for entry. Imagine my surprise when Lieutenant Rowe stepped back along our ranks and stopped where Mallory and I stood.
“Mister Baldwin. The captain would like you to attend him, if you please.” Rowe spoke quietly and more formally than he might have on shipboard.
I looked again at the doorway for some sign that Mister Rowe was serious and saw Decatur catch my glance, smile, and motion for me to come to the front of the line. Which, of course, I did, noticing the curious glances from my messmates, officer and midshipman alike.
As I made my way up the walk and ascended the four steps to the front door, the captain turned to the white-haired man standing next to him and spoke.
“Mister Little, may I present Midshipman Oliver Baldwin, the young man of whom I spoke. He was with me in Enterprise and quite distinguished himself against the corsairs.”
The older fellow, the one with the scarlet sash, smiled warmly, and stuck out his hand in greeting. I felt the color rise up my neck and right on up to the top of my, now uncovered, head.
“Oh, uh, sir.” I stammered. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
I had been holding my hat in my right hand and, seeing Mister Little’s hand suspended between us, waiting for me to take it, shifted the hat to my other so I could accept his greeting. And managed to drop it in the process. It bounced down the first step, where it sat, balanced precariously on the edge of the stone steps just below the doorway. I remembered with a shudder the first time I had met Captain Decatur in Boston and experienced a similar mishap with my hat, though with potentially more disastrous results.
Do I pick it up first, or shake his hand first?
I bent to grab the elusive hat and, upon straightening (to the amusement of my colleagues) took the proffered hand. Mister Little smiled, but in greeting, not amusement.
“It is truly a pleasure to meet another hero of that brilliant campaign, sir. Your captain told me, all too briefly, of your exploits in the matter of the Philadelphia frigate. He also mentioned that your own brother was held captive by those … people. I look forward to hearing more about that affair, just as soon as I complete my duties here. My daughters would be most unforgiving should I absent myself from my post while our guests are still arriving.” His voice was surprisingly strong for a man bearing the weight of age. Deep and resonant, I knew instinctively Mister Little’s voice could be heard when needed.
“Oh thank you, sir. But I surely was not a hero—of any stripe. Captain Decatur was the true hero of that business.” I had never been called a hero before, and hardly thought of myself as one. I remembered all too clearly how terrified I was as we approached and boarded the ship in Tripoli Harbor. Hero indeed! “But I would be delighted, sir, to tell you what I can at your convenience.” I smiled and let go of his hand, the image of that huge, black-bearded Arab waving his scimitar with the intent of splitting me stem to stern, still lingering in my brain.
In an effort to dispel it, I focused my eyes upon the gentleman and gave him a more careful scrutiny. He was old, into his sixties, mayhaps more. The skin of his face seemed transparent, parchment-like, where it stretched over his cheekbones. His hair—what there was of it—was totally white and wispy. He wore a most luxurious, also snowy white, mustache, droopy, but turned up at the ends, and a significant dewlap under his chin swayed noticeably when he moved his head. I had the fleeting thought that the weight of his dewlap had pulled the skin on his face down, stretching it over his skull, and managed successfully to restrain the smile the image provoked.
But it was his deep-set eyes that held my attention and I found myself quite unable to tear my gaze away from them; pale blue, they were, and as bright as a September sky. They seemed to sparkle when he spoke and, when he was listening, focused on the speaker with the same intensity a thirsty man might cast upon a tall tankard of ale. I had the feeling that he really wanted to hear my story of the Philadelphia raid though he was well aware, I suspected, of most of the details. And in spite of the fact that I was, I am sure, in his eyes, a mere boy, he seemed genuinely interested in what I might offer. I made a mental note to seek him out later.
An attractive young lady stepped to where we stood and spoke briefly to Mister Little, who acknowledged her with a nod. He smiled an apology to me and returned his attention to greeting the arriving guests, which still included my shipmates. I stepped aside to await my peers and watch the procession of guests ma
ke their way into the house.
“What was that all about, Oliver?” Mallory’s insistent whisper made me turn my gaze from the gaily decorated guests as they passed into the house. As if he were unsure that his voice would attract my attention, he plucked at my sleeve as well.
“Just a chap the captain wanted me to meet. Has an interest in that business in Tripoli some years back. I think he might be … no, he must be father-in-law to our host, Mister Vernon.”
“Oh. I thought perhaps you might have … oh well. Never mind. Let us follow the others and see what might be in store for us. I noticed some appealing young women ahead of us earlier, though I doubt I will find them as appealing as the lovely daughters of Eve at Missus Featherstone’s.” Mallory grinned lasciviously, took my elbow, and propelled me further into the broad central hall.
Rooms, two on each side of the hallway, were empty of people, but decorated tastefully. Dark furniture—even from the hall I could see it was well made and of a pleasing design—gleamed dully in the waning light of the late day sun. Some portraits of distinguished looking, stern-faced men hung on the paneled walls, separating brass sconces, each holding long, unlit tapers.
We moved slowly down the hall toward an ornately detailed archway, beyond which were stairs leading up and, beyond them, another door, also open. I could not help but notice the beautifully carved balusters adorning the wide staircase; I am sure that even my father, a well-respected cabinetmaker in his own right, would have thought them magnificent.
“Where are we going, Baldwin? Doesn’t look much like this place is rigged up for fancy ball.” Why Mallory thought I might know the answer to that was quite beyond me.
“How would I know, Dan? I’ve been here as many times as you have!”
He looked at me strangely, started to say something and thought better of it.
Following the line of guests, including our officers, with Decatur in the van, we passed through the open door beyond the stair and found ourselves, surprisingly, once again outside. A short walkway led us to another building almost as large as the house we had just left. Though built of the same pink-colored stone, the structure was less splendid and not as tall as the house. A pair of steps led us within and immediately, we found ourselves in what could only be the Grand Ballroom.
Longer than it was wide by about twice, the room seemed to swallow the people that flowed into it’s maw. Chandeliers of gleaming brass—I think there were at least eight of them—hung from the high ceiling on great lengths of chain. Each of them held more candles than I could easily count; I could only imagine what a task it must be to light them! But lit they were, even though the waning rays of the sun shone through the west-facing windows and a pair of doors open to a garden beyond. Strung between the windows and the door were chains of greenery interwoven with delicate flowers, giving a most festive air to the room. Someone, it appeared, had gone to considerable ends to show off this grand room.
Along the paneled walls, fixtures, also of brass, appeared about every five steps, and each held four candles. I noticed several of them had burned down and watched as a servant, dressed smartly in some form of livery, replaced and relit each of them. What opulence! He continued to maintain a watch over his charges, (apparently, he was responsible for only one portion of the room; there were several others who managed the problem further into the room) moving quickly to remove a guttering taper and put in it’s place a fresh one. Their efforts maintained the room in brightness, allowing the fine colors of the ladies’ costumes and the decorations throughout to show brilliantly, an artist’s pallet of every imaginable hue. Looking glasses on the wall opposite the windows reflected the swirling colors and threw the dazzling radiance back into the room. A fireplace was fitted at either end of the hall, each displaying a perfectly laid fire, not so large as to be overly warm, but surely adding to the charm of the room. The marble floor tiles, alternating gray and black squares, ended before each fireplace at what appeared to be a rough hewn stone hearth. Ladies and gentlemen filed into this opulence, seeking friends and calling greetings to one another as they espied their associates.
Mallory and I moved cautiously through this elegant setting, nodding politely to well turned out gentlemen when they noticed us. Tailed coats, mostly brown or dark gray, over high-collared ruffled shirts and waistcoats complete with stocks seemed the order of the evening. Each wore closely fitted knee-britches, stockings, of course, and low shoes. I noticed that some of their costumes seemed a bit worn while others seemed to have come directly from the tailor.
They stood in groups of four or five, some smoking cigars, chatting, and all holding glasses of amber-colored liquid which I took for rum, or perhaps American whiskey, similar to that which was served on Chesapeake when “spirits up” was piped.
The ladies of the gathering also stood in small groups, but none smoked a cigar and the glasses they held were tall slender affairs and seemed to contain wine, perhaps Champagne. A few held round glass cups, ornately carved, that called to my mind some of the glasses that, in the past, I knew were for a punch. I noticed that each of the ladies took very small sips of their beverage, and some appeared to cover their mouths as they swallowed. Others giggled. Their dresses were of the finest material, brightly decorated with beads and other sparkling doodads that caught the light. Bare necks were adorned with jeweled necklaces and, should there be any expanse of skin below the neck, it was decorated with a pendant of prodigious size effectively maintaining a level of modesty suitable to the gathering. Some of their sleeves ended above the elbow, but, in the interest of modesty, their arms were covered in white gloves, which left very little skin exposed. Their hair was coiffed in different ways, but the vast bulk of them seemed to favor piling the hair in masses of curls on top of their heads, leaving a few strands to fall down alongside their faces. Tall feathers had been employed to top off this arrangement, adding, in some cases, as much as a foot to the height of the lady so decorated. I found it somewhat unsettling, this feat of balance, and Mallory and I enjoyed wagering on which arrangement might fall over first. How they held those seemingly precarious hairdos in place without the pine tar favored by sailors seemed to us a great mystery!
A small assemblage of musicians perched in the corner and, on a signal from a person unseen, picked up their instruments, those with violins or violas tucked them under their chins, and their leader took his place in front. He also held a violin, but his was tucked under his arm rather than his chin. He held his bow up and in front of him, and then suddenly pointed with it at one chap seated at a pianoforte.
The piano-player began to move his hands over the keys before him, but I heard not a sound come from the instrument. People in the room paid the musicians no heed whatever, continuing talking among themselves, each a bit louder than the other so as to be heard over the competing voices. Gradually, as the stringed instruments joined in, I began to hear the music; so must have others, as the conversations died down much as a tumbling stream quiets as it flows into the millpond.
The young lady whom I had noticed at the door took to the floor in the center of the room, joined by a rather dull looking fellow who, to judge by his face, would rather have been elsewhere. And they began to dance.
Others joined in, and soon, Mallory and I, along with a number of others moved to the side of the room to allow the dancers the space to perform their steps.
“Goodness, Baldwin! Have a look at that one. No, you dolt, not that one! That one, with the crimson gown. What a beauty! I believe I shall have to make her acquaintance.”
I shot my messmate a look that clearly indicated what I thought of his chances of success.
“You just wait and see if I don’t, Baldwin, you doubter!” He laughed, still convinced of his ability to dazzle the ladies with his wit and sophistication. “You’ll still be standing here, looking about and feeling awkward while I am … well, you’ll see. Might even learn something, were you to keep me in your sights.” He laughed again, and accepted
a glass from a passing servant.
I took one as well, and sipped it tentatively. It was indeed whiskey, as I had earlier surmised, but clearly not of the same stripe as that served on Chesapeake; this was exceedingly smooth and had no burn at all when swallowed.
What a pity the Navy doesn’t carry this type! I thought. And took another, less cautious taste.
“You must be off the frigate recently come into the harbor.” A well turned out fellow, who had taken station to my right, spoke.
I looked at him and, in an effort to achieve more sophistication than surely I felt right now, paused to take another swallow from my whiskey.
“Aye, I am from Chesapeake” I responded after what I thought a suitable interval.
“Must be quite a life in the Navy. Out on the deeps, chasing pirates and living with all that excitement! Storms, battles, guns blazing, sails straining. Goodness! What a grand existence. Never been to sea my own self, save once when my father sent me to Virginia on business. Hated every minute of it. Dreadful sick I was! Took a stagecoach back. Took less time and was surely more steady. I do admire you for the life you chose. Couldn’t possibly do it myself, though!” He smiled.
“I never thought of it as particularly exciting, over all,” I answered. “Though it does have it’s moments.”
“Never seen action, then, I’d reckon. Looking forward to your first real sea battle, are you?” His grin grew wider.
The chap was about my age, maybe a trifle older. He was dressed in the same fancy clothes most of the other men wore, and his face was round, almost doughy. Which also described his complexion.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 21