“Not likely to be a problem, sir. I don’t know how long she’ll take the strain. Should the breeze pipe up any more, we’ll be obliged to hand some canvas, but in the meantime, we’re working at shoring up these lowers,” Henry pointed at the fore and main lower masts, still scarred from a number of our hits. “Mizzen ain’t likely to take any more canvas, but we have managed to close all the holes in her hull. Seems to be staying fairly dry below. Pumping for only about ten minutes a watch.”
In fact, Henry had ordered Comstock to remove the fothering canvas we had early on hauled under the hull, to slow the influx of water, as the carpenters worked from the inside patching, caulking, and restoring the ship’s integrity.
Our daily sun sights, when reduced to give our position on the globe, showed us making good progress, often one hundred miles and more during a noon-to-noon run. And nary a sail had we espied! A fact that Henry and I spoke of and had toasted with some fine wine (previously belonging to Captain Carden) more than once.
Two weeks into the trip home, and still over one thousand miles from New York, Willy sent his messenger to wake me early in the morning. I stumbled to the quarterdeck, trying to pierce the early morning darkness and hoping not to see trouble aloft. I breathed a sigh of relief when nothing seemed out of place. I squinted forward through the blackness and could make out United States’ light winking something over a mile off our weather bow. What could be wrong?
“Mister Baldwin, sir. I am sorry to have bothered you …” Willy was never really sure of himself but had gained some confidence during his sojourn in Macedonian. He seemed to be taking well to his temporary promotion.
I cut him off, perhaps a bit abruptly. “Willy: I am sure you had a perfect reason for calling me. Now, stop your apologizing and tell me what has happened.”
“Yes, sir. I think we might be in for some weather, sir. Looks right dark—I mean … even darker up ahead. Ain’t stars showin’ and feels like the wind mighta hauled a bit. Seas have changed, too. And sir, the glass has dropped some in the past hour.” He stepped to the rail and peered down into the inky water moving past our side.
I studied the darkness, realizing that he was quite right: the wind had veered slightly and the sea had changed it’s mood. As to a deeper blackness ahead of us, I would withhold judgment. It all looked dark and, without a moon (we had not enjoyed an unobstructed view of her in the past several nights), any increase in clouds was difficult to determine. But Willy had been up here for some four hours and might be better able to discern building weather.
“Good job, Mister O’Donahue. I believe you might be right. Call out the watch and reef the courses. I will rouse the captain and tell him what we are doing.” I left him to carry out my orders and headed for the scuttle to the Cabin.
“Got some weather building up, Oliver?” Henry spoke from the darkness before I could say a word.
“Yes, sir. It would appear so. Willy’s got the watch and called me when he got concerned. I think he’s right and told him to reef the courses for now.” Henry must have felt the different motion of the ship.
“Wise choice. Our rig ain’t likely to stand much strain. Did you think to signal the commodore as to what was actin’?”
I had not and, in the darkness of the Cabin, blushed at my oversight. “Not yet, sir. I will do so at once.”
“Just haul small a moment, Oliver. I’ll come up and see for myself. Then we’ll signal the commodore.”
By dawn, the seas had built significantly; waves broke against the weather bow and sent icy spray flying down the deck. Comstock had rigged lifelines on both sides of the spardeck; the courses were double reefed, and we had, on Captain Allen’s orders, handed two of the stays’ls. Still the ship creaked and groaned like a person possessed.
United States had shortened down, but not to the extent we had. And she was, once again, opening the distance between us. A lookout in the foretop bellowed down “Signals on Old Wagon, sir.” He was obviously one of our former shipmates in the American frigate.
I swung my glass and focused on the flags whipping stiffly in the strong wind. A quartermaster, as well as our prize captain was doing the same. But I called them out first.
“Commodore says not to press our luck; shorten down and he’ll wait for us.”
“There’s a relief! I was about to order another reef in the tops’ls my own self. Glad he’s encouraging us to have a care!” Henry turned at once he had spoken to me and ordered Comstock and the sailing master, Mister Maples, to tie in a second reef in both tops’ls.
Even as our men hastened to carry out their orders, climbing the ice-laden ratlines to the tops, I saw Decatur’s men working their own way aloft in United States. Apparently, he would continue to act as our protector, as he had signaled.
As the day progressed, Macedonians timbers and rig protested more insistently; the hull creaked and groaned like a soul enduring some hideous torment and the wind’s keening in the rig grew louder. Ice had begun to form on the deck as well as making a shiny, dangerous coating on our shrouds and spars.
“Oliver, I think we need to get this ice off the old girl. It’s weighting her down and straining everything. Tell Comstock to get some men aloft and let the watch handle the decks. Is the galley fire still lit?”
We had earlier debated whether or not to put out the cook fire due to the weather and decided that, as about the only source of warmth in the ship, to do so would be inhuman.
“Yes sir. As far as I know it is. I have not told the cook to secure it.”
“Good. After you get the bosun started on the ice, tell the cook -what’s his name? Oh yes, Walters, or something like that—to see what he might provide in the way of hot food for the men. Probably ought to give the prisoners a bit extra as well. Heaven knows, it’s likely cold enough in the hold.”
Considering the well-being of the British sailors and a few petty officers who had no desire to help us bring their ship to America and were, subsequently, locked in an empty sail locker, had not occurred to me. I remarked on that to my superior.
“Well, Oliver, Cap’n Decatur always insisted on treatin’ his prisoners fairly. I think it’s a good policy for us, too. Someday, the tide may be turned and I’d like to think we might get treated decently by them, should that come to pass.”
I had heard stories of how the British treated prisoners during the War for Independence; it was not anything I ever wanted to experience, but reasoned that, should America gain a reputation for treating fairly it’s prisoners of war, any of us who might suffer the misfortune of capture stood a better chance of surviving the experience.
“Aye, you’re likely right. I’ll see to extra rations for all hands, prisoners and ship’s company alike.”
The remainder of the day and into the night passed cold and stormy; the seas remained boisterous and Aeolus blew his cold, wet breath at us from the north. The crew got their hot food, an extra tot of spirits, and continued their backbreaking job of chipping the ice off the ship before it could send us to the bottom. To add to our woes, we began to take on water at a faster rate as the ship worked in the heavy seas. The squeak and rattle of the chain pumps became a part of the constant noise on board; the timbers protesting, the rattle of the blocks aloft, the groaning and, occasionally, the screaming of the wind, the rush of the seas past our laboring hull, and now, the rattle of the pumps being manned for three out of every four hours—around the clock.
Decatur would signal from time to time, inquiring as to our “health” and each time, we answered properly, showing lights or flags as the time of day dictated. We were managing to weather the storm, which we all hoped would blow itself out soon. Intermittent snow added to the misery as it insinuated its icy wetness between collar and neck, under gloves, and, at times, aided by the wind, stiffening one’s face to the point of being unable to form intelligible words. But we continued to make progress toward America and, we reminded ourselves frequently, the untoward weather made it more difficult for
the enemy cruisers to find us. We endured, having little choice in the matter, and finally, after three days and nights of torment, we found calmer seas, moderating temperatures, and a warming sun. Every man aboard breathed a bit easier, knowing the ship had withstood the strain—at least this time.
“SAIL! Sail broad on the lee bow. Looks ‘bout two leagues distant and headed this way.” The lookouts cry interrupted our little celebration of the return of moderate weather and was greeted with a sudden silence from all.
I grabbed a glass, slung it over my shoulder, and ran to the main shrouds, shouting at O’Donahue to send a messenger for Henry.
The ship, when I focused my glass on her, was clearly not British; her high poop and short masts marked her Spanish or perhaps, Portuguese. And she was making headway on a course that would intercept our own and that of United States.
“Signal the commodore, quartermaster: vessel two leagues to my starboard. What instructions?” Henry didn’t even wait for my report.
“Cap’n, I would wager she’s a Spaniard. Small. Maybe a trader?”
“We’ll let Cap’n Decatur investigate her, Oliver. Not likely we can do much should she prove unfriendly. What are there, five serviceable long guns and maybe two crews that might be able to fire them? Not the odds I’d like to face. But Old Wagon can turn her to matchwood quick as ever you please.” He smiled at the thought.
“United States bearing off, sir. Headin’ ‘cross our bow.” A decidedly English voice drifted down from the foretop as the lookout there reported that, indeed, Decatur would handle the intruder.
We watched as the big frigate bore up near the strange ship and shivered her tops’ls. A puff of white smoke blossomed out from her bow chaser, followed quickly by a dull thud as the sound reverberated across the water.
“My stars, Cap’n! Is the commodore firing at her already? Must have seen something he didn’t like!” Willy stared slack-jawed at Decatur’s open hostility.
“No, no, Mister O’Donahue. He’s simply signaling her to heave to, just as we did with that ship we stopped to put Mister Cochran on,” Henry winked at me. “A lee gun with a half charge and no ball. Nothing sinister about it at all. And it appears to have been successful. The carvel, if that’s what she is, looks to be heaving to.”
I couldn’t help myself. “I would imagine seeing that heavy frigate showing her teeth would be inspirational to them!”
A boat appeared from under United States’ quarter and made it’s way to the other ship, now stationary barely a pistol shot distant from our frigate. And, after making the side of the stranger, it returned, made yet another round trip, and then was hoisted aboard.
“What do you suppose that was all about? I can’t imagine Decatur would send a boat across to them. More likely would be the other way ‘round!” Henry continued to watch the two ships through his glass as both hauled their braces and were quickly underway.
We wondered about the strange behavior of both ships for several days until, during the first watch one afternoon, we received a signal from the commodore inviting our captain to sup in the flagship. The weather, while still very cold—the calendar was well into November, after all—was moderate and we continued to make steady progress toward the New England Coast. Henry accepted with alacrity, admonishing me to call him should anything unseemly arise. It was after he left that it dawned on me I was now the senior officer aboard the prize! I paced up and down the quarterdeck, prowled the spar and gun decks, and, afraid to leave the deck for more than a few minutes at a time, wolfed down some melted cheese and bread for my own supper.
Is this what it feels like to be the captain? How do they do it? How does Henry manage to sleep at night and seem so … in control all the time?
Mister Maples took the watch that evening, listening seriously to my recitation of Henry’s caution to me, and Willy, until he noticed the hour, followed me about the ship like a pet dog, trying, I am sure, to assuage my burden of command. It was almost a relief when he departed to take his own meal in the gunroom.
And when the lookout cried out that a boat was approaching from United States, I hurried to the waist to greet my captain with a silent prayer of thanks that nothing had gone amiss.
“Well, I found out what acted with that cruiser a few days back, Oliver.” Henry reported immediately on his return from Decatur’s table. “And you were right: she was a Spaniard and heading for Cadiz.” He pronounced it Cadeeth.
He continued, quite unaware of my joy at his return.
“Decatur put the purser off Macedonian in her and with him, the Royal Navy pay records for their crew. Figured he could get his own self to England with ‘em and make sure the Brits got their pay. Kind of speaks to what we were talking on the other day, ‘bout treatin’ prisoners proper and fair.”
That both surprised me and didn’t. Why would anyone, beyond other Brits, care whether the British sailors and officers got paid? That Captain Decatur did could only be explained by the fact that he was Captain Decatur, the very soul of fairness and equanimity.
Henry had more to tell. “Cap’n Carden—he’s still taking his meals in the Cabin, you know, and the officers in the gunroom—spoke to me. Said quietly that he’d put a letter to the Admiralty in the purser’s hands telling ‘em what a gentleman is our captain and how gracious he treats his prisoners. And seems almost likeable now, compared to the way he was acting when we brought him across to meet Decatur! Reckon that first lieutenant of theirs, Hope, has been brought down a bit as well. Was quite civil to me. A most pleasant evening, Oliver.
“And you’ll want to know that Decatur asked after both you and O’Donahue. Told him you were standing up to the job quite nicely and Willy … well, Willy is Willy and I just said he’d likely welcome a return to the cockpit and the other mids once we get in!”
“Oh Henry! That wasn’t fair. Willy is doing fine. Remember he is only a midshipman even though we think of him as a lieutenant. And he’s only been aboard a short while. I know he’s young, still a boy, in fact, but we all were when we were midshipmen.” I sprang to my young colleague’s assistance quickly.
“I will be sure to mention that when next I see the commodore, Oliver. I am sure I must have said something about him behaving admirably or something.” Henry grinned at me.
It suddenly dawned on me that he might have enjoyed a bit more wine than normal and was simply having sport with me. I smiled back at him and excused myself, claiming the need to relieve Mister Maples on the quarterdeck.
It was only about ten days later that we began to watch for the appearance of land on the western horizon. And the very next day, a fog rolled in, wet, thick, and cold, and obscured everything beyond the jib boom. While the temperature was not yet at the point where everything turned to ice, the fog and cold made the entire ship, from orlop deck to spardeck, dismal. I began sleeping in my greatcoat, trying in vain to shake off the wet from topside whenever I went below. Willy O’Donahue suffered in silence, rarely complained of it, but was humorless in his demeanor. And we all spoke through clenched teeth, necessary to keep their chattering from obscuring our words.
United States, shortened down to allow us to sail alongside, hailed and through the swirling mists, Henry and I watched as Decatur mounted the bulwark and raised his speaking trumpet to his mouth.
“Mister Allen: Should we become separated, do not try for New York. Most likely the Sound is alive with British cruisers. ‘Course, should this weather persist, I suspect you would have little difficulty evading them!” We could hear his chuckle quite clearly across the fog shrouded one hundred yards of calm sea that separated us.
“By my reckoning, we are on a line that will take us just east of Montauk. It will be far easier for you to sail straight into Newport from there and I can find you quickly should I need you. But you will not linger there longer than necessary; I expect to make for New London, wait for your arrival, and then we will take our prize to New York together. God speed. And mind the bars and currents
around Block Island, should you find yourself in that place.” The commodore’s voice seemed to come from several directions, muffled as it was by the fog.
“Newport! Henry that would be wonderful! I could see Ann again and you, your parents. Would it not be splendid to sail past Castle Hill and surprise the good folks with our glorious good fortune!” I was enraptured with the thought, one half of me picturing our triumphant entry and one half of me fearing the possibility of becoming separated from our protection and getting through whatever British ships might be patrolling those waters east of Montauk.
The fog persisted, swirling and teasing us by lifting enough for us to catch a glimpse of the big frigate, now well ahead of us, then descending over us again like a blanket to plunge us into a world of solitary whiteness, wet, and cold.
“By my reckoning, Oliver, I make us about fifty miles east of Block Island. Were it not for this cursed fog, I would think our lookouts might spot the high ground there at first light.” Allen appeared to have made up his mind to sail Macedonian into Newport. Block Island was an easy day’s sail from Narragansett Bay.
We had been sharing a nice bottle of Captain Carden’s wine in the Cabin, discussing our progress and trying to guess whether we might see United States at any time soon. Was she still there, watching over us, or had Decatur, assuming we were still wallowing in the light airs and fog, borne up for New London? We talked about firing a half load of powder to let him know we were still there but decided it would also let anyone else know of our whereabouts as well. So we sailed on, blind and cautious, making our westing, and hoping to see the highlands of Block Island before we discovered the bottom!
Ever since Decatur had offered us the choice of going into Newport, my thoughts, those that weren’t focused on my duties in the ship, were consumed with Ann. Had I dreamed of our conversations and promises during my all-too-brief visit to Newport some months ago? No, I thought not; they were too real in my mind. At night I dreamed of her lustrous hair, sweet mouth, and musical laugh; in the daytime, I peered through the fog, often climbing to the foretop, in the hopes of seeing the rise of a small island some forty miles off Narragansett Bay. And I wondered where the commodore might be. As we drew closer to my Ann, I hoped we would not find him, thereby relieving us of the need to sail to New London.
In Pursuit of Glory Page 42