The Tempest--Commander Putnam and Mr. Madison's War

by James L. Haley

  Bliven could not help but recall his first meeting with Clarity, when she had asked him whether he believed in God, and he asked if she had ever been in a storm at sea. It was still true: Nothing would lead one quicker to a fear of God. But after the storm came the sun, beaming onto the rolling sapphire swells, the sails bellied full out as they stood south and ran full-and-by on the last of the storm winds.

  Abel Lewis had marked which men best withstood the tempest, and with the return of the sun and a horizon he sent the sturdiest of them to the masthead, which in the swell was cutting more than a twenty-foot arc back and forth above them. The conditions changed little as they ran down upon the Windward Passage.

  Lewis also kept a strict eye on their boys, and was eventually moved to seize one of them by his arm and take him to Bliven’s cabin. “Your pardon, sir, this boy was caught taking another’s bread away from him.”

  The youth was so surly that Lewis stood by in case he was needed.

  “What is your name, son?” asked Bliven.

  “Turner,” he answered with a sour face.

  “Turner what?”

  “Turner’s m’last name. First one’s Richard.”

  “Turner, on this vessel you will address the captain and all officers as ‘sir.’ Do you understand?”

  Lewis thumped the boy smartly on the back of his head.

  “Yes, sir,” the boy replied, although there was a sarcastic emphasis on the sir.

  “Turner, why did you try to steal that boy’s bread?”

  “’Cause I was hongry.”

  “Well, steal on this ship again and you will be whipped, do you understand? When you are hungry, ask Gaston for something and he will give you more bread.”

  The boy seemed downcast. “Yes, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Ten what?”

  “Ten, sir.”

  “You are not very big for your age.”

  Turner swelled up. “Tougher’n I look, as that boy found out!”

  “Tell me about your parents.”

  “Ain’t got none.”

  “No relatives?”

  “They ain’t got no use for me. I raised myse’f.”

  “I see,” said Bliven. He also saw, this was how the cycle began, of low-born men with no manners and a vicious streak, whom vindictive officers whipped into submission as he had seen on the Enterprise years before. This was where it began, with boys like this. “Well, Turner, it looks like it falls to the Navy to raise you. We will feed you and train you, and pay you, but for your part, you must be willing to learn and to get along with your shipmates. Many great captains began as ships’ boys, did you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Turner, the United States has a use for you, even if your relatives do not, but you must do your part. Do we have a bargain?”

  “You not gonna whip me, then?”

  “Not this time, this is your warning and your offer. Behave well, and I will see that you are well treated and advanced. Defy me, and I promise you, you will go back to the street to live like an animal. Is it a deal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then come and shake hands on it.”

  Decent treatment proved to have its effect on the boy. He left off his path toward criminality and indeed took an active interest in the ship and its running. Bliven gave Gaston access to his captain’s box that he had screwed down to the table in his cabin, and also the responsibility to see that the boys were kept in trimmed hair and nails.

  The matter was in hand by the time the sextant told them they were nearing the latitude of the Windward Passage. They knew they were approaching it only by navigation, however, for they could see no land when the call came down. “Deck! Deck!”

  Abel Lewis had the deck. “What do you see?”

  “Sail, bearing southeast, about three miles.”

  Three miles? thought Bliven as he heard the exchange through his open cabin windows. Why would he not see it until only three miles away? In a few seconds he had his hat on, grabbed up his speaking trumpet, and was up the ladder and back to the quarterdeck.

  “What do you make of her?”

  “Small brig, sir, Jamaica-man, just like us!”

  “Ha! This sounds hopeful. Run up British colors, Mr. Lewis, let us not alarm him.” It had not occurred to him until this moment that their sailing in a Jamaica-built cedar vessel would offer the best disguise they could want, better than the common ruse of the false flag.

  Almost at once the vessel they were espying also broke out English colors and altered course toward them. “Apparently,” said Bliven, “he wishes to speak us.”

  “Yes, sir, but this could get awkward if she is also an American trying to draw us in.”

  “Ha! It would, but I cannot imagine an American vessel coming through this passage.”

  The strangest thing about capturing his first prize was that it was not a battle, it was a transaction. Two hundred yards from the prize, Bliven wore ship and came to its heading, opened his gunports, raised his true colors, and spoke him to heave to. It was a sad business no doubt for the owners of the prize he was about to take, but Bliven imagined that the whole exchange might not have been ten words different from what the Moorish pirates had done for centuries. Only now he was the one doing it.

  Her cargo proved to be mostly oranges and rum; she was in good condition and well worth selling as a prize, and her crew of twenty would not overcrowd his own hold when confined below. For years American sailors had evinced the preference for the whiskey now distilled in Kentucky and Virginia for their grog, but some of his Carolinians did acknowledge a fondness for rum. Bliven therefore diverted two barrels of the rum and had Gaston rig a second grog tub so that his seamen now could have their choice of daily spirits.

  He selected a prize crew and warned them strictly that he had made, and had attested, the number of barrels of rum in the hold, and for their sakes they had better make port in Charleston with the same number on board. Seldom did a prize reach port whose cargo was more valuable than the vessel herself, but this was a rich and lucky find.

  After dispatching his prize, Bliven and the Tempest stood back to the east, running along the coasts of Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, expecting several weeks of open sea, skirting well to the east as she ran south to the northeast coast of South America.

  SÃO SALVADOR DA BAHIA DE TODOS OS SANTOS

  PORTUGUESE BRAZIL

  16TH DECEMBER, 1812

  My Own Dear Wife,

  I apprehend at this season what frigid blasts and snows you must be enduring at home, while here in the tropics the heat, even at night, is such that one can hardly sleep without first wetting the sheets. We dropped anchor at this place on yesterday midday, and I desire you to notice the exactness with which I copied out its full name—the Bay of the Savior of All the Saints. I do not know how it got its name (but how you must be rolling your eyes at the Popish sound of it)—except possibly that the bay is capacious enough to contain all of them. The entrance from the ocean is five miles wide but presently opens out into a vast inland sea of several hundreds of square miles. The roads are thickly crowded with ships of many nations, indeed whether to even use the word roads, for there is no inner harbor, yet all is sheltered from the ocean. Some of the vessels are English, but as we find ourselves in a neutral port I can make no act toward them. I wish that I could search them and discover if Sam was taken up in one of them, but that is so doubtful that the thought must grow only out of my anxiety for him. The information is that he was taken onto a frigate, from which he would be a much harder case to recover.

  We have had a most eventful cruise. Having come safely down the colonial isles of the Caribbean, we were running southeast past the coast of Guiana, and took a second prize as she was standing out of Demerara, a British brig laden
with tropical woods, no doubt intended for fine furniture or paneling in the great house of some lord or other. She surrendered quite tamely, yet I cannot say I am disappointed at having taken two prizes without firing a shot. (Perhaps I begin to understand why the Barbary Moors established a profession at it; it does seem such a leisure way to make a living!) I sent her home with a prize crew, and when she is sold off we will profit most handsome. The British crew are corked up in my hold, which I disliked for their sakes as much as for my inconvenience, and I put them ashore here, where they can get passage home.

  My love, one “lark” I must tell you of. We were running down close inshore, and as we crossed the equator, I re-created the act of the Portuguese navigator who dipped a bucket into the sea and was astonished to draw up fresh water. Do you know? It is true! The great wash of the Rio Amazonas is so gigantic that it pushes fresh water far out into the ocean. Well, then, having crossed the equator, we had to have the proper ceremony about it. Being now a “captain,” all was under my command. I had Gaston our Negro cook dress up as Neptune, strands of a mop for his hair, wielding a trident which he had fashioned from cooking utensils. We raised him a dais at the end of the galley. Knowing that we were safely supplied with fresh water until we should reach here, I had Gaston empty the brine from the steep tub and fill it with fresh water, well heated. The whole area was decorated with sand, shells, and seaweed from a party I had sent ashore. All the poor Griffins who had never crossed the equator before were stripped and given a bath, so as to make them “worthy” of attending Neptune in his court. We had both rum and whiskey in plenty, so all was very merry.

  And now I can hear you saying, “Wait, dearest, you yourself have never crossed the equator before.” That is quite true, and I was presented as a prince before Neptune and given the first bath. I confess very readily that it was a wonderful luxury, a hot bath, and all the better for being first, because in good faith I should have hated to bathe after some of those who followed me! The great purpose of it all, which none actually suspected, was to get at least some of them clean, for Dr. Cutbush had been most emphatic in telling me he would hate to ship out with men recruited in Charleston. And fear not, I had Gaston give the steep tub a thorough cleansing before returning to its wonted use.

  And now, my love, business presses. There is an American consul here who in former years has been engaged mostly in the repatriation of American sailors taken from American ships seized by the English, but who carried protection papers, and were put ashore, their ships being seized for British service. I will entrust this letter to the consul, with some hope that through him it will find its way to you in a more or less direct route, and not wander through Arabia, or Madagascar, or Tahiti, or make some similarly improbable detour.

  My business here will not long detain us, I must disembark the prisoners I have taken from the British merchantmen. How they make their way home, I leave that to the diplomats. I care only that the consul procure us water and provisions and spring me loose at the first moment. It was my good fortune to find only one British man-o’-war here, a corvette called the Bonne Citoyenne, yet another French capture—sometimes I wonder that the English ever actually build ships of their own, they take so many from others. I sent her captain an invitation to single combat, for we are evenly matched, but he replied not, and I have since learned the reason, that she carries in cargo half a million pounds in specie which he dares not risk in battle.

  Indeed, the consul informs me that there is an enemy thirty-eight expected here to escort her, and if a British merchantman leave here, chance across him, and speak him of our presence, it could go very hard with us. Therefore, we shall “verschwinde,” as the Germans say, while the going is good.

  Ah, but my love, there is one other matter I must tell you—as much as I miss you and desire you with me, I am even more than at Charleston heartily glad that you are not here, for I fear the way of life in Brazil would sear your sensibilities beyond recovery. The issue is that great one that has occupied your conscience since I have known you, that being slavery. It exists here on such a scale that I could scarcely believe my eyes. I tell you in cold sobriety that for every slave that was taken into our American South before the trade was banned, at least fifteen were taken into Brazil. They tell me that the Portuguese have been here upward of two hundred and fifty years, and the broad avenues of the city are lined with beautiful stone buildings of quaint and beautiful architecture of a style I have never seen before. But, my love, it is the slaves who quarry the stone and haul it, and grind the lime for mortar. Of course they also are the labor for the very substantial agriculture of the region—and, my love, it is slaves who carry the wealthy around in sedan chairs! Never in even the most remote parts of our backward South did I witness such depravity.

  Slaves here were imported in such numbers, from diverse parts of Africa, that unlike in our Southern states where they are required to leave off their native customs, rather, here they live in communities wherein they maintain their old languages and customs, and the Portuguese do not mind so long as they perform the labors required of them. At a glance this seems kind, yet it is only occasioned by the sheer numbers of the poor wretches who are grabbed in their homes and brought across the ocean in chains.

  And there was a further surprise to me. In North Africa we saw white Christians held as slaves by the Moors—here there is a population of Moors who are the slaves! O, is not the world a vast place, with many ways to live life—and are we not damn’d lucky to live where we do?

  My love, it is time to close. The lighter is coming alongside, and I shall send this letter back with its captain, along with my receipt for the filled barrels he brings. This departs with the kisses of

  Yr ever husband,

  Bliven Putnam

  Master Cmdt., USN

  From Salvador the Tempest stood to the east, with the intention of crossing the sea lanes of commercial ships heading for Britain with the produce of her Indian possessions. The winds opposed her, however, and three days’ hard sailing bore them scarcely a hundred miles.

  “Deck! Deck there!”

  “What do you see?”

  “Ship, bearing to the north, maybe five miles!”

  Five miles? thought Bliven. Either the lookout’s eyes had grown sharper or the day was really clear or it was a ship large enough, unlike his own, to be seen at that distance. “What do you make of her?”

  “Hull’s down, sir!”

  “Keep us informed!”

  Coming from the north, she would not be loaded with exotic cargo. Perhaps she was bearing manufactured goods, bound for one of the South American ports. Two hours passed.

  “Deck!”

  “Masthead, what do you see?”

  “She is a frigate, sir, coming on fast!”

  Yes, it could be the Constitution, thought Bliven. The Navy had expressed its desire to attack British shipping in the Southern Hemisphere. Rodgers had his squadron, he’d heard that Decatur now had a squadron; she might have been the only large ship free to dispatch to this area. He realized he was the only one on board who would recognize her if he saw her; he disliked going aloft, but he slung his glass over his shoulder, grabbed hold of the ratlines, and began climbing. If what Barron had written him was accurate, he could well join up with the Constitution and the Hornet.

  Bracing himself in the iron hoop of the masthead, he was reminded just how much greater circle of vision one had from up there. The ship was clearly visible, making toward them. He put the glass to his eye and realized in a flash it was not the Constitution. It was a lighter vessel, probably a thirty-eight, elegant, probably French built. She flew no pennant, but Bliven had to assume she was English. Solidifying that conclusion, he saw she had set stuns’ls and was coming on like a greyhound.

  “Sing out, now, if she changes course,” he said to the lookout, hoping to convey none of his own anxiety that he had perhaps an hour to prepa
re for an attack. By the time he was back on deck he was breathing hard. “It is indeed a frigate, Mr. Lewis, but I fear not ours. Beat to quarters.”

  Lewis shouted the order to the Marine standing ready at the head of the ladder, and the ship leapt to life as he beat out the tattoo. Guns were hauled in and tompions pulled, crowed up and quoins inserted to level them for loading; the boys began running about, depositing powder and shot in the garlands behind the guns. They prepared well enough, he allowed, but could they fight? How would they react when a mate’s intestines blew across their faces? For that matter, how would he himself react?

  That his whole ship was untested, and he, in his first command, was unnerving and close to a cause for panic. What cruel witticism was God working upon him, to show him now how little he really knew and how ill prepared he was to command, how unready for battle? In his first days as a midshipman embarked for the Mediterranean, he had harbored the darkest apprehension of Lieutenant Sterett, for his fame in skewering one of his own gunners upon his sword for flinching from enemy fire. Now the guns of his own ship were manned by clots of terrified recruits, still civilian merchant sailors at heart, who were more petrified of the too-famous butchery of naval battle than they were of disobeying him. Should he not have made these men fear him?

  During the Barbary War, officers had remarked endlessly on the lightly built Tripolitan ships, converted merchantmen who had no business mounting guns for they could not receive fire. Now here he was, in his cedar-built Jamaican eggshell that would take no punishment, and the only way to reinforce her inside, even just between wind and water, and even had he time and lumber and a carpenter to do so, would have added so much weight that he must lose any advantage of speed he might otherwise have had.