The bosun saluted. “Right away, Captain!”
“And move our eighteen here to the stern. Cut a space in the taffrail and we’ll use it as well. At the double, now!”
Bliven rejoined him on the quarterdeck. “That rocket, and the signal guns, she was telling them to come up?”
Hull nodded. “That’s right. She was signaling her position to the others.”
Only a moment passed before below them they could hear the carpenter setting to his work. The stern windows that made the captain’s cabin the most brilliant and airy compartment in the ship were not built to be removed. The turned-lathe divider that separated the wardroom from the length of the gun deck must have a section cut out; equally so, the bulkhead between the wardroom and the captain’s cabin must have a space cut out. There was not time to saw them neatly, and they could hear axes biting into the wood.
And moving the guns—they knew the herculean effort this would require. A twenty-four-pounder, with its iron barrel nine feet, six inches long, weighed two and three-quarter tons; its wooden carriage another half-ton. It was lucky the coming squadron could not overhaul them quickly, for they must be in the same near-dead air, but they did have the current working with them and not against them.
Three boats, manned with sailors who could see their fate approaching even as they pulled their oars, laid into their work and began to turn the Constitution’s head around. Eventually those on the quarterdeck could hear the thick wooden wheels of the twenty-fours squeaking into position in the captain’s cabin, lurch by lurch as the men heaved on the ropes.
“Deck there!”
Bliven was the first to answer. “What do you see?”
“All ships flying English ensigns. And, sir, the brig, I’m sure it’s the Nautilus!”
It was now past six in the morning, sunny, cloudless. All the glasses on the quarterdeck were trained on the larger spread of ships, studying the smallest but one. Any doubt that the Nautilus had been captured was removed when a slight shift in their course revealed the American flag hanging lifeless beneath the British ensign.
All looked at one another mutely. Discourse was unnecessary, for they all had the same questions: Had Rodgers left New York without waiting for them? Was the Nautilus with him or was she taken singly? Had there been a battle beyond their hearing, and what was the result? What of Rodgers and the President, the New York, and the United States, the fighting heart of the American Navy? Were they lost? With the Nautilus captured, her crew must be prisoners aboard one of the other vessels in their sight, but which one? If they engaged, they ran the risk of firing upon their own men.
At length Hull lowered his glass. “Damn.”
Slowly, by degrees, they saw the compass rose turn until they were on a southerly heading.
“Deck there!”
“What do you see?”
“The enemy vessels are lowering boats, they’re making to sweep just as we are!”
They raised their glasses and saw the truth of the lookout’s conclusion. “What original thinking,” groused Bliven as he lowered his glass and collapsed it. “They must have confounded their teachers with their brilliance in school.”
“Mr. Putnam?” Hull spoke after a moment without having lowered his glass.
“Captain?”
“Did I hear you complaining just now that you wish the British would show some initiative and do something original, and not just imitate our maneuver?”
“I did, sir, yes.”
“Well, kindly do not say it so loudly next time, it seems they were listening to you. Look again.”
Bliven strode almost to the taffrail and raised his glass. Of the three leading ships, two had cut loose the boats towing them, which all were now rigging lines to the central largest frigate, an apparent thirty-eight, which would now have nine boats pulling her, and she must gain on them rapidly. He lowered his glass. “Oh my God.”
Hull braced his glass on his hip. “What d’you think?”
“Well,” said Bliven, “they are game for a fight right enough, so I salute them for that.”
“But?”
“Did they not just hand the advantage to us? If they catch us, they are no match for us. And before they catch us, we can rake their boats with the carronades until there are none left to row.”
“Not very sporting of you, Mr. Putnam.”
“Not sporting of me? They must be wagering that that one frigate by engaging us can slow us enough for the others to come within range and overwhelm us. They are willing to sacrifice those men and perhaps that ship on the chance of cornering us with the others. It seems to me the lack of sportsmanship is theirs, not ours.”
“Ha!”
“They look to delay us, and if we make but two or three tacks while engaging her, they will have calculated correctly.”
“Tack?” Hull laughed. “Mr. Putnam, there is no wind! With nine boats pulling her, she can lay off wherever we can’t bear on her and reduce us at her pleasure. Well, I say, almost no wind.”
That was well spoken, for they felt the very slightest of zephyrs from the northwest. If it would only freshen, it would be a great advantage on this heading.
The morning’s stillness was split by the double boom of the following frigate’s bow chasers. All heads turned to see twin splashes several hundred yards astern of them. “Well,” said Hull, “that was pretty pointless.”
“Keen to show us how eager he is, I’ll bet,” offered Bliven.
“I still don’t like the look of it,” said Hull. “See, those other two frigates have caught a wind, they have worn to windward and are gaining on us. We had better warn the gun crews, the ship may have to fight both sides.”
“Captain?”
“Mr. Morris?”
“I would not wish to state the obvious, but whether we could tack or not, if that lead ship can do anything to us, anything at all, even grape through our sails, it will cost us the margin of our escape. To say nothing of those other two bearing up on us.”
“Yes,” said Hull warily. “Go on.”
“You know, I was rather scrappy when I was a lad, and I remember my father once advising that when I was in a situation in which I could not possibly prevail, only a coward would run, but a gentleman might well extricate himself if he but excused himself politely and slowly walked away.”
“Speak plainly, man! What do you mean?”
“Kedge anchors, Captain. We are still in only twenty fathoms of water. Let us send out kedge anchors as far as we can and drop them. Stick the bars in the capstan, pull ourselves along as we wind them in, and just . . . walk away.”
“By God.” Hull looked at him, blasted. “By God. Bring the boats in! Leave one down, put fresh men in it. You go down and lead them, stay under the bow until we can get a kedge down to you. Putnam?”
“Sir?”
“Have the bosun splice all the line we have left on board, a thousand yards if he can. Splice them well, our lives depend on it. Have him rig both kedge anchors. You know what to do, one end in the capstan, lower the kedge to Mr. Morris.”
“Right away, sir!” he returned directly. “Captain Hull, the bosun says we should have enough line to manage whatever we need. They are getting lines on the kedge anchors. He recommends that you send one out as you reel us forward with the other. We may look a bit like a drunken man crawling down the lane, but it should work. The last sounding was twenty-six fathoms, still plenty shallow.”
Bliven observed the kedge being lowered to Morris from the starboard cathead, and felt a wash of apprehension spread through his belly. Its six-foot shank of wrought iron was alarmingly slender, as was its curved four-foot crown. When this device hit the muddy ocean floor, would its flukes gain the purchase to pull the fifteen-hundred-ton frigate forward, or by turning the capstan would they merely dig a furrow in the mud as they dragged the
kedge back toward the ship? If the flukes did catch hold, might not the weight of the ship snap the crown from the spindly shank? Or it might work, all were possibilities. Morris’s boat pulled out the full thousand yards before letting it fall into the glass-calm sea with a hiss of bubbles. He saw the kedge fall and waited a few seconds for it to strike the bottom. He ran to and descended the waist ladder, for the capstan was located midships on the gun deck, and with the bars inserted spread nearly the whole width of the deck, from the breeches of the port guns to those starboard. He ordered the ladders raised. “Now, boys, push for it!” As they overcame the initial inertia the capstan turned grudgingly, but steadily, and up on the spar deck the line they pulled in became wet. Chips dropped overboard began to show greater forward progress than they had made by sweeping.
“Come on men,” he exhorted, “put your backs into it! Every yard wound up is another yard toward safety!” Their motivation was increased by more booming reports from the bow chasers of the nearest frigate. The balls continued to fall short but served the Constitution well, for each concussion that rolled over them gave the men at the capstan a fresh burst of energy. At the outer end of one of the bars Bliven saw a middle-aged tar, black hair gray at the temples, underweight but hardened by life at sea, whom he had seen stagger out of a longboat, exhausted from rowing. Bliven urged him out of the way. “Your sense of duty is admirable, but you are spent. Rest yourself, I will do this. Come on, boys! For your lives, now!”
His boots did not give him enough purchase on the deck, but his presence had a good effect, and as they turned the capstan the momentum of the ship began to help them. Morris came back for the second kedge, lowered from the port cathead. They rowed ahead with it as Morris looked back, dropping it when he saw the first kedge rising from the water.
Hull on the quarterdeck could feel their forward increase, and he strode down the spar deck to observe the labor at the capstan, looking down through the hatch. “Boys, this is capital, this is excellent. We are opening a distance from them, keep at it. You, bear a hand there, if you please, take over for Commander Putnam. Mr. Putnam, come up here with me.”
They had just gained the quarterdeck when Hull stopped in his tracks. “Lord God, did you feel that?”
The same puff of wind lifted Bliven’s hair below the rim of his hat. “Yes, sir, I most surely and gratefully did.” He pulled off his bicorne, facing different points, looking up to their pennants to see what direction they pointed, trying to judge whether this hope of a wind was errant or whether it would come steady. The canvas above them ruffled as the sails began to fill, the rippling pennants curling south-southwest.
Hull was reading the wind, too, and with wind to work with, he was confident of his and his ship’s ability to outsail anything of similar size. “Bring your boats in! Get your boats in! Trim your sails, now, larboard tack! Mark it for the log,” he exulted. “It is nine minutes past nine.”
Exhausted but grateful, the men in the longboats came under their davits and tied on before shinnying up the nets cast down to them. The men at the capstans continued turning until both kedges dangled from the catheads, not fully secured in case they should be needed again. The boats were hoisted clear of the water but also not secured, for none knew when they might have to be lowered again.
Hull came forward again from the quarterdeck. “Well done, lads, by God. There is grog for those who want it, get something to eat, and rest. Well done, I think you have gotten us out of this.”
For an hour Hull paced the quarterdeck, watching the two closest enemy vessels, the one astern of him and one off his lee quarter, fall slowly behind. And then shortly after ten the wind died, completely, the sails falling slack. “Damn,” Hull sighed. “All right, Mr. Morris, let us try towing again; get your longboats into the water, try to select some fresh men to man the sweeps.”
“Well,” he said tiredly to Bliven, “at least by the time we’re done our new boys will know how to lower and raise boats, if nothing else. Oh, now what?”
The slightest puff of wind came over their port quarter, then died, and then another straight over their stern. “Bosun!”
“Sir?”
“It appears that we will continue with a light and baffling wind. Make this your task, read the water and mind the cat’s paws. Trim your sails instantly whichever way they point. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you do this?”
“Aye, sir, I have followed cat’s paws before.”
“Very well, get to it. And wet the sails. By all means, wet the sails.” Such an order increased the labor by a great factor. All knew that wet sails captured more of the wind than dry, but buckets of sea water had to be hauled to the yards and poured down, and not merely hauled but hauled continuously, for even in a slight and humid wind, the thinly spread water would evaporate almost before the next bucket arrived.
“Deck! Deck there!”
“What do you see?” called Bliven through cupped hands.
“Four frigates off the lee quarter, approaching. Ship of the line and two small ships off the lee beam, approaching. They’ve found us again!”
Hull raised his glass and saw the truth of it. “Oh, this is iniquitous. They have managed to catch a wind that has eluded us. Mr. Putnam, would you not agree that it is time to lighten ship?”
“Yes, sir, absolutely.”
“Nothing too extreme,” said Hull.
“Yes, sir.” Bliven remembered Bainbridge at Tripoli, who had rolled the Philadelphia’s guns overboard and chopped down the foremast to try and free himself from the reef that held him fast.
“Take a few men, rid us of some of the fresh water, say ten tons to start; we will see how much that helps us.”
“Right away, sir.” He was calculating even as he strode forward to the waist ladder. After five days at sea in no extreme heat, they must still carry about a hundred and forty tons of water, so ten tons would be no great danger to lose. He clattered down the waist ladder and roused the crew of the closest starboard twenty-four. “Men, come bear a hand here, quick, quick! Bring hammers!”
He descended farther with the gun crew following to the orlop deck and a few steps farther to the hold, where they stood next to and were dwarfed by a solid mass of nested water casks. “Boys, we are going to lighten ship and see if we can open some distance between us and them that’s after us, and we’re going to start with some of the fresh water.”
“You mean us to carry casks up on deck and throw them overboard?” The sailor looked apprehensive, for each ten-gallon cask weighed more than eighty pounds.
“No, no,” answered Bliven. “That would take forever.” Not to mention waste the barrels and make weeks of work for the cooper. “Just open the bungholes and let the water run down into the kentledge.” They made their way in the dim light of battle lanterns to where the curve of the bottom told them they were at the deepest part of the Constitution’s vast round belly. Bliven looked up and found where six pipes of joined wood sections punched through from the berth deck above; he traced them down to where they disappeared into the ballast, where he knew their ends opened next to the keelson. “Start with these here.”
“How many?”
“Count out two hundred fifty.”
“Two hundred fifty!”
Bliven spun and glared at him.
“Yes, sir, drain two hundred fifty water casks.”
No sooner had Bliven set his foot on the ladder than he saw one of the crew knock the plug from a cask at the very bottom, and a stream of water shoot out from it. “No!” he roared. “Start with the uppermost or it will become top-heavy, come down, and crush you. Do you hear? Move the empty casks forward and aft to get them out of the way and expose the next layer. Do you understand?”
It was the gun crew’s chief who was accustomed to take responsibility. “Yes, sir, we will manage it for you.”<
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As he ascended, Bliven heard the hammers knocking away the bungs as loud splashing commenced, and one of the men spluttered, “We’re going to get mighty wet by the time we’re done.”
“Are we not lucky?” barked the chief. “Others on this vessel would give a month’s wages to have a nice bath.”
Bliven bounded back up the ladder to the gun deck, where between the ladder and the mainmast the bilge pipes terminated in six onion-shaped bulbs of beaten copper, each a foot across, topped with tightly sealed leather from which yard-long rods extended up to pump arms, and an open mouth that poured the water pumped up to run out onto the deck. They were set in three pairs, each pair connected to reciprocating ends of the arms so that one piston drew up as the other discharged down. He hailed the crew of the port gun opposite that whose crew he had taken down. “Boys, bear a hand. Break out the bars and pump until it runs dry. You fellows there,” he addressed another gun crew, “take up some mops. Come, now, hop to it!”
By the time he regained the spar deck and rejoined Hull, they could hear the racing splatter of water as it ran out of the gun deck’s scuppers, down the tumble home, and into the sea. “Sir, you have resumed kedging as well as towing?”
“Yes. We have barely enough left on board to work the sails and the guns, if we have to. It’s a hell of a deal. We can’t catch a breath of wind.”
Once again their discussion was ended by the double boom from the bow chasers of the frigate dead astern of them. “Oh, I am getting tired of this. Observe now, observe!” shouted Hull. The balls made two great splashes two hundred yards astern of them. “What do you make of that?”
“I’m with you, Captain. Most British frigates mount eighteens. If that is their maximum range, if we answer with our twenty-fours, we might do some damage.”
“Mr. Walker!”
“Sir!” Hull was answered by a midshipman of perhaps twelve, standing at attention at the head of the after ladder. He was not large for his age, his voice had not yet changed, and Bliven wondered if he had looked similarly ludicrous when he was a boy doing his best to mimic the dress and manner of the officers. He quickly concluded that he had not, for he didn’t join the Navy until he was fourteen—very late, by the standard of the day.
The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War Page 14