Fletcher's Glorious 1st of June

by John Drake

  The whole ship was waiting for their tame Limey to do his part. Cooper was waiting, the officers were waiting and the men were waiting. The moment had arrived for which Cooper and his uncle had schemed and planned, for whatever motives, to get me aboard their precious ship to train its gunners. I’d not exactly been dreading the moment, for I’d been well enough trained aboard Phiandra to know my business, but I’d expected to have no heart for the business. I’d expected to be bored. But I wasn’t.

  I looked at the wealth of manpower that Declaration was blessed with — 216 faces were grinning at me from the gun-deck and another sixty from the carronades. They were men in their twenties, prime seamen, and every one fit as a butcher’s bulldog. They’d been hand-picked from the hordes of volunteers who’d come forward, and then fattened up for weeks in harbour, on fresh meat and new-baked bread (Cooper had seen to that). Even Nelson in his glory never had a crew like ‘em.

  And I looked at her shiny new guns, fresh from the cannon foundries at Furnace Hope in Rhode Island. I looked at all that and shook my head in disgust for the bodge they were making of their drill.

  They were slow and they were slack. They laughed and joked as they ran to general quarters and ran out their guns. They were the happiest set of fellows that ever went to sea. They were playing at the bloody thing and it filled me with anger. It’s not that I’d any great love for gun-drill in itself, but I knew how bad these Yankees were and they did not and it galled me to see the self-satisfied looks on their fat faces. So I took a deep breath and let ‘em have it fair and square.

  “You slovenly buggers!” says I, in a lion’s roar. “A choir of bloody schoolgirls could’ve done it better!” I’d a fifty-inch chest by then and I’d learned to use my voice, so I can promise you that I shook the paint off the figurehead with my bellowing. And I could tell you they didn’t like it one bit. You could see ‘em twitch as it hit them. They thought they’d done well, you see. They were expecting a pat on the back. On a rolling deck with the spray coming over the bow, and the ship making a good eight knots, they’d run out and secured their guns just as well as they’d done it in harbour. And they were all seamen, who knew how difficult a feat they’d accomplished.

  For Declaration of Independence.was the biggest ship they’d ever been in, and her 24-pounders were the biggest guns they’d ever seen. Prime seamen they might have been, but all their experience had been in merchantmen and privateers with their fours, sixes and nines with maybe four or five men per gun. But a full navy crew for a 24-pounder was twelve men and a boy to run cartridges. The barrels alone were nine-feet-six long and weighed fifty-two hundredweights even without the yellow-ochred timber carriages.

  So they’d grinned and smirked at one another and thought themselves a fine set of fellows for being able to cast off lashings and haul their guns into a firing position without mashing their toes under the trucks or stuffing live matches into the powder horns.

  But they’d never seen the machine-like speed and precision of a British man-o’-war steadily delivering a broadside a minute. In short, there wasn’t a man in that ship who knew what he was up against.

  God knows what had happened to the fighting Captains they’d had in the Revolutionary War, for there were certainly none of them aboard Declaration in April of ‘94. John Paul Jones was two years in his grave by then, and he’d have turned in it if he’d seen what I’d just witnessed. The fact was, of course, that the Yankees simply hadn’t got the Sea Service tradition with its corps of professional officers that England took for granted, and the appointment to command Declaration had been made by the political interest of the Cooper family. At least the Coopers had had the sense to spot their weakness and attempt to make it good. That’s what I was for.

  So I took my coat off and went at it with a full heart.

  “With your permission, Captain?” says I, catching Cooper’s eye as I shoved my hat and coat into the hands of one of the middies. I noticed that Cooper was looking distinctly sulky and it occurred to me that I’d been less than tactful in bawling at his men. In criticising them, I’d criticised him. But as Boney said years later, you can’t make omelettes without breaking eggs, so I left him in his pet and ran down the companionway on to the gun-deck.

  The men were all around me and on either side. They’d run out on both sides with half crews. Up and down the deck, long lines of guns stretched away in perspective. Eighteen guns each side, six men per gun, rammers, sponges, shot racks, lines of firelock triggers, 36 gun-captains with 36 trigger lines.* * The number 36 implies that Declaration mounted 36 maindeck guns, not 38 (Fletcher was meticulously careful in matters of numbers). Presumably the missing pair were those intended for Captain Cooper’s cabin. This may have been deliberate policy, or perhaps the U.S. Navy was short of 24-pounders. S.P. Apart from the fat round masts, the pumps, capstans and gratings over the hatches, the 200 foot by 40 foot deck was nothing but guns, from the bow to the bulkhead of Cooper’s cabin.

  Sullen faces were all around me. I’d succeeded in making myself highly unpopular. Now I’d thrown off my coat with the aim of demonstrating how I wanted the drill executed, but on impulse I had a better idea.

  As I went to one of the midships guns I got a downright truculent, insulting look from its crew. The lubbers were muttering too, a thing I could never abide from the lower deck. I’d have dearly loved to have shown ‘em the error of their ways, but I held back. I didn’t know how Cooper would take to my methods. In the Royal Navy, officers weren’t strictly supposed to exchange blows with the men, and I guessed Yankee regulations would be the same as ours, but with King George crossed out and George Washington written in. None the less, I needed some gesture to show the lubbers what was what.

  So, with two hundred maindeck gunners around me and the rest of the crew peering down from the decks and rigging above, I took hold of the inhaul tackle secured to the stern of the gun-carriage and threw my weight on it.

  It was a risky thing to do, for it was six men’s work to drag the gun bodily back eight feet from its snug berth where its long black snout stuck out of the port. For an instant I thought I’d made a fool of myself before every man and boy in the ship, as my shoes slipped and I damn near went flat on my back. But the deck was sanded for general quarters, and I got a grip. Leaning hard back I put my back and leg muscles to work and heaved with all my strength till the sweat burned in my eyes and the line skinned my hands, which had gone soft from living ashore. But the squat trucks of the gun carriage squealed and grumbled and the great black beast came steadily inboard to meet me. Once it was moving the thing was easy and I hauled her out hand over hand.

  When it was done I straightened up, pretended my hands and back weren’t ablaze with pain and glared at the gun-crew. They’d got the point. They still didn’t like me, but the insolence was gone.

  (Best thing I ever did aboard that ship, incidentally. It’s just the sort of damn fool prank that wins men’s respect. But I wouldn’t recommend it to you unless you’re my size or some large part of it.)

  “Now then, you lubbers,” says I to the rest of them, “if I can do it, then so can you! Haul ‘em inboard!”

  And so I put Cooper’s gunners through their paces: run out, haul in. Train astern, train on the bow. Do it with full crew, do it with the starboard watch fallen out. Then every crew to race against every other. Finally I sought the loan of Cooper’s fancy pocket watch, with its sweeping hand that registered in seconds, and I had every gun load and fire live ammunition in turn as fast as each could, with the prize of double grog for winners.

  The deafening thunder of the big 24-pounders set the blood racing in my veins, and the banks of white smoke, reeking and choking in the throat, brought back memories of the men who’d been my teachers: especially Lieutenant Seymour whose drill it was that I was passing on, and whose tricks of instruction I was using. I wasn’t being particularly clever. I was just passing on what I’d learned.

  Cooper gave me half a watch (two hours
), for that first drill, and when it was over the gun-crews were better men than when they started, for they’d had their stupid fat-headed complacency dented, they’d smelt powder smoke, and they didn’t hate me so much neither. Double grog for the winning crew (another of Mr Seymour’s tricks) was an inspired act. Twelve men loved me for the getting of it, and the rest had something to hope for in the future. Seamen will sell their lights and livers for grog.

  When my time was up, I dismissed the gun-crews and reported back to Cooper, who nodded at me with a mixture of respect and irritation. The other Lieutenants leapt on the hands and instantly sent them doubling in all directions to sail-drill, fire-drill, boat-drill and raising and striking the upper yards. It was laughable really; they’d taken their cue from me and every one of them was trying to show what a tartar he was for efficiency.

  So the crew got no rest that day in any respect. Meanwhile, as the upper decks ran alive with harassed matelots, with the Bosun’s Mates chasing them up the masts, I went below to look up the Gunner. I had a bone to pick with him. But I was tactful about it this time, and sought him out in his store room down on the orlop, below the water line.

  In a King’s ship, the Gunner is one of the three “standing officers” — Gunner, Bosun and Carpenter — who live permanently in the ship and are not discharged at the end of a commission. Also, the Gunner, Bosun and Carpenter are always selected from reliable seamen with years of experience. The Gunner in particular has to be a man in whom absolute trust can reside, for he has the key to the powder magazine. In time, the Yankees followed in that same tradition and built up their own corps of Warrant Officers. But for the time being, Declaration was their first and only warship, so they had to make do. And Declaration’s gunner was one Foden, a New Yorker and lately an employee of the Cooper family. He was another bumped-up pollywog from the merchant service, and much like others in the ship: he had the skills of his trade but not the right expectations.

  He was a clerkish-looking fellow with a long coat dyed a dull approximation of service-blue and his hair worked into a tail like a common seaman. He wore small squarish spectacles on the end of his nose and was a man in his forties, much older than most of Declaration’s people.

  “Mr Gunner!” says I, creeping up on him unexpected — I couldn’t resist it: I’d seen him locking his store room, too preoccupied to see who was coming down the companionway behind him. He jumped most satisfactorily.

  “Mr Fletcher!” says he, with the lantern light of the orlop shining in his lenses. Precious little sunlight got down here.

  “I noticed there was but one priming quill per gun in the maindeck lockers,” says I.

  “One per gun, sir,” says he nervously. “Waaal, that’d be the case,” says he.

  “Only one?” says I. “And how shall the guns be fired once they are used up?” He licked his lips and explained patiently.

  “By filling the vents with priming powder,” says he. “To convey the flash of the firelocks to the cartridges. Aye,” says he, “that’d be the case.” By George, I could’ve throttled the little swab. He was lecturing me like a schoolboy. “Mr Foden,” says I, “whenever I want an explanation of the bloody obvious, I’ll remember to call on you!” He jumped again and white appeared around his eyes. “And as to priming powder,” says I, “you know as well as I that a cannon-vent full of that takes its own bloody time burning down and God knows when the main charge will fire!”

  It’s true, too — takes ages and the damn thing fizzes like a roman candle with all hands standing back with their fingers in their ears. “But a priming quill’s different, is it not?” says I.

  “Aye-aye, sir,” says he.

  “Why?” says I, irritated with the pompous rogue.

  “Waaal, sir,” says he, “‘tis quicker with a quill in the vent. The powder in the quill takes fire in an instant and sends a flash down the vent that ignites the charge at once.”

  “Well done, Mr Foden!” says I. “So why did not every gun have a good supply of quills ready for use?”

  “Waaal, sir,” says he, “‘tis the work of making of ‘em, I guess. And me with only one mate as understands the work.”

  “Mr Foden,” says I, “you will ensure that every gun and carronade in this ship has a plentiful supply of quills. You will do it in time for my drill tomorrow, or I’ll have you disrated!”

  Foden went white with shock and stood there trembling before me. He was in terror at the prospect of losing his cosy berth. I honestly think I’d have done him less harm with boxing his ears, and I got no pleasure from frightening the wretched little grub. It made me feel too much of a bully. But what if Declaration had been brought to action with her guns relying on powder trails, and firing at half the speed they should have?

  The result was that Foden made up the quills pretty damn sharpish and they were in the lockers for gun-drill the following day. Mind you, I found out later that Foden sneaked to Cooper to complain of me behind my back. But Cooper had the sense to back my order. And it’s a damn good thing for him that he did. Without those priming quills I’d never have brought his crews up to anything like proper speed. And then Cooper would have lost his ship.

  I was aboard Declaration for nearly five weeks in all. In that time, I saw her improve as a fighting ship at the most astonishing rate, for all the basic material was there: ship, crew and gear. And despite all that I’ve said against them, her people were something astonishingly keen.

  Cooper took her far out into the Atlantic and practised his ship in every aspect of the seaman’s business. He learned how to get the best out of her too.

  A rahsay like Declaration had her strengths and weaknesses. She was massively strong for a frigate, for she had a line-o’-battle ship’s timbers and so could mount such heavy guns. And her sides were near three feet thick of solid oak at the gun-deck, so she was a sea-castle when she went into action. Against that she rolled something awful and she needed four men at the helm even in fair weather. And if it came on to blow, then another twenty men were needed down below on the relieving tackles to help control the rudder.

  That’s what came of messing about with what the original Frog designer had laid down, for the garlic-breathers built fine ships, there’s no denying it, and they were seldom improved by hacking decks off them in a foreign dockyard.

  None the less, Cooper drove his crew from the seamanship angle and I drove them for him from the gunnery angle, until my gun-crews began to do their work like real teams.

  There’s a certain quality that marks out good teamwork which is best described, strangely enough, by the musicians’ word “attack”. It means the wholehearted and simultaneous delivery of every man’s effort together at the instant of need. It must come without let or hesitation, nor the least holding back of utmost commitment. Whether it be fiddlers scraping out Mozart, or a gun-team throwing their weight on a tackle, it’s the same. And after days of steady drilling, my gunners were beginning to show that quality. It’s a hard thing to describe, but anyone who’s seen it, knows it. And it can’t even begin to develop until the technique of the craft be known. First the technicalities, then speed, then attack!

  The result of these constant drills in gunnery and seamanship was that Declaration of Independence was fast becoming a very menacing and efficient man-o’-war.

  The faults I’d seen earlier were fading away and, given another ten days at sea, I would venture to say that, given her weight of broadside, nothing short of a ship of the line could have bested her in single combat. And I, who couldn’t give a damn for such things, was the man most responsible for this.

  For Cooper got over his sulks as soon as he saw what I was doing with his gun-crews, and his favour smiled upon me. I was never quite easy with his attitude to me, in that I never got to the bottom of it. He was a devious swab, up to his gills in politics, and it’s my belief that he regarded me as some sort of magical, talented being: a mixture of Ariel and Caliban, that he’d conjured up by his own special cle
verness, and that was now his to command. Certainly, from the way he strutted up and down the gun-deck during my drills, you’d have thought he was due the credit rather than me! What’s more, he told his other officers that everything else aboard ship must now be run “Fletcher-fashion”. This phrase I would point out was his, and not mine.

  Of course, this meant that I made no friends among the officers. To them I was teacher’s pet and school bully rolled into one. And so my time aboard Declaration was somewhat lonely. But I didn’t give a monkey’s fart for that. For I hoped to be out of the ship in a few months and back to Uncle Ezekiah’s 5,000 dollars where they awaited me snug and cosy in my bank in Boston. And then, God willing, I’d never go to sea again. That thought kept me far warmer at night than the society of a bunch of Yankee Lieutenants guzzling wine and salt pork round the Wardroom table. Those that weren’t chewing tobacco and spitting on the deck, which disgusting Yankee habit they’d brought with them from the merchant service.

  The men liked me though. I think they actually enjoyed the drills once they’d got the idea of what was wanted from them. They certainly gave me their best and you could see the spirit in ‘em as they stood tensed and waiting, row upon row, lined up by the gun tackles, looking to me for the word of command.

  But I never got those extra days. If I had, then the course of my life would have run very different than it did. Even after all these years I still think of what might have happened in that event. But it never transpired and that’s all there is to it.