Home of the Brave

by D P Prouty

  After getting the galley back in order, getting the supplies on deck and the cooking fire started, I was told to go and assist Mr. Duffy who was building casks. I went below deck and up to the forecastle where he had all his tools spread and was working to assemble some casks. He had several metal hoops premade that he stocked before we departed Norfolk to mount on the casks once constructed. “Clyde, it’s good to see you, lad, what are you doing down here?” he asked.

  I replied, “I was told to come and help you.”

  “Good, I could use the help! I’m almost done with this cask, but I’ve got two kegs yet to do, hand me four of those staves there by your feet.” I did as he asked, he was very skilled and seemed to work effortlessly.

  As he hammered in the hoops with the hoop driver, I said, “Mr. Duffy, why is Mr. Edwards so detached? At one moment he seems bearable, but then his temper flares and it seems everyone becomes a target for his wrath.”

  Duffy said, “Mr. Edwards has been at sea most of his life and has battled his own demons for many years. He was once a privateer, bet you would not have guessed that!” He paused for a moment and began to set the staves for the keg, “During the revolution with Great Britain, Mr. Edwards was a young sailor aboard a privateer by the name of Copperhead out of Boston. I don’t really know the whole story, he doesn’t say much about it, but I understood that they were successful in taking several British prizes off the New England coast—Tarnation!” He stopped as some of the staves fell out before he could get the hoop around them.

  I pleaded, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you.”

  “That’s all right. Putting these staves together is rather tricky while putting the hoop on.”

  He had me hold some of the staves in place as he worked the hoop. Then he said, “Where was I, oh yes, one night the fortunes of the Copperhead changed. They came across a merchantman on a night with a full moon and gave chase. They did not see the British warship bearing down on them until it was too late. As I heard tell, the captain struck her colors to surrender the ship, but the British either did not recognize she was surrendering or refused to concede the gesture and continued to fire into the ship and set it ablaze, completely destroying the Copperhead. Edwards was one of only a handful of survivors that remarkably made it to shore after drifting on debris for several days.”

  When we finished the keg, Mr. Duffy told me he could manage the last keg, and thanked me for helping him. How remarkable, I thought, he didn’t have to thank me, Mr. Edwards never thanked me. I went up on deck to get some air before I had to help Mr. Edwards with the distribution of the supper. I saw him standing over his cooking pot near the foremast. He seemed to be talking to himself as he stirred the stew. As I stood looking at him from a distance, I thought of what he had said to me. I wondered if he had nightmares himself, did he make peace with the ghosts that haunt him in his dreams? Did he dream at all? I’m pretty sure Lieutenant Baker doesn’t have a problem sleeping. He probably hunts down his adversary in his dreams. I sometimes saw the Frenchman lying on the deck cut in two in my visions, and I wondered if as Mr. Edwards had said, I could make peace with the phantom of my dreams. What I was most afraid of was the reality of more specters yet to come, would I yet see the merchantman who drown just the night before? Would he visit me as well? I wondered how many did Mr. Edwards have drifting in his thoughts?

  After a few moments, I made my way over to him and got the rations to take to the officer’s mess. He looked at me and said, “Taste this stew.”

  I tasted it and it was very good, Duffy was right, Mr. Edwards was an extraordinary cook. I said, “This is wonderful! Sure outdoes hardtack.”

  He looked at me and gave a slight smile of approval and said, “Off you go now.” I gathered up the rations for the officers and made my way to the officer’s mess.

  Shortly after delivering breakfast to the officers, I made my way back on deck to assist Mr. Edwards and saw Charlie crouching down near the foremast. As I approached him, he stood up and looked very pale. “Are you all right, Charlie?” I asked.

  He replied shakily, “I’m all right,” as he wiped his face. He had been crying, but I did not want to make it obvious that I knew.

  I asked him if he was going to eat and he expressed that he did not feel well. “Do you want me to get Bat?” I stated.

  He replied that he did not, and looked as if he wanted to tell me more, but didn’t.

  I started to continue on my way, but stopped and said, “Charlie, what’s wrong with you, maybe I can help.”

  He sat down and told me that he watched a couple of merchant sailors drown during the night and how horrible he felt. I agreed and reminded him that we saved eight. “You don’t understand!” He professed.

  “I don’t understand what?” I countered.

  “I can’t swim!” After he calmed a bit, he said again much softer, “I can’t swim, Clyde. What if I go into the water, I will drown.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that in that storm, even if you could swim the chances of survival were slim. I patted him on the back and said, “No, you won’t, I’ll teach you to swim.” As we turned, he tripped over the Green Gato, who had made his way onto the deck and ran under our feet. Charlie and I both fell and the cat ran off aft. Getting up I said, “But I’ve got to teach you to walk first!”

  He laughed and exclaimed, “Maybe we should see if the Green Gato can swim!”

  7

  Sailing for Charleston

  Several days of clear skies and calm seas were immensely welcome as we continued our journey ever closer to the United States. On one such afternoon, the captain was speaking with the midshipmen, Mr. McCall, who the officers called Bobby, and Mr. Talbert, whom they called Bart. Mr. McCall was sixteen and Mr. Talbert was older, maybe eighteen as I recall. I didn’t care much for the likes of Mr. Talbert, he was the kind of person that viewed himself of a higher quality than he was, not that having aspirations of something greater is all bad, but his arrogance and self- proclaimed grandeur showed itself in every aspect of his conduct toward his fellow shipmates. The captain was having them read some instructional letters. Mr. McCall read adequately and then the captain asked him a couple of questions from the content, something about boarding protocol. Then Mr. Talbert began to read, but appeared annoyed and asked the captain how these letters applied to this ship since they are instructions for a revenue cutter. The detracting manner in which he asked the question noticeably bothered the captain. “Mr. Talbert,” he said with a stern tone, “Most everything that sails is connected in some way by commerce. Merchantmen, man-o-war, privateers, whalers, pirates, and even fishing vessels are all connected by commerce on the seas. This ship was built to collect revenue from those trying to avoid taxation. In the larger sense, the Navy, Revenue-Marine and the Marines are all striving to accomplish the same goal, which is ensuring the economic survival and commerce expansion of our country.” Mr. Talbert appeared dejected, and then the captain replaced his tone with a kinder approach. “It is better to assume others are as wise as you before declaring them to be wrong. If they are in error, you will have the opportunity to persuade them to look from a different viewpoint.” Speaking to both, he continued, “As officers, you must be able to communicate what you think without distancing the men.” The captain gave the impression he knew the bearing of Mr. Talbert and was clearly attempting to take a curative approach.

  Lieutenant Potts and Mr. Freeman caught the attention of the captain and asked him to approach the map table near the helm. Lieutenant Potts was informing the captain that we would be arriving at Charleston in two days if we maintained our current speed. The captain acknowledged, then he instructed Lieutenant Potts to have the midshipmen practice with the chip log and hourglass to determine speed readings. They went to the stern and dropped in the triangular-shaped piece of wood attached to a line as they flipped the hourglass. Counting the knots on the line as it moved away from the ship until the sand was gone to determine our speed. Lieut
enant Potts made them take turns practicing the procedure.

  The weather was ideal and we had a good wind. Standing on the quarterdeck near the captain, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I thought, If only my father could see me now, I wondered if he would be proud of me. The morale of the crew was grand as we were all looking forward to our arrival. I was thinking of what adventures I had already taken part in and what was yet to come. I knew I still had a lot that I did not understand, but I was looking forward to learning. I wondered if we would encounter that French captain we saw at St. Eustatius, Captain Michot, or Captain Daquin, whom Michot appeared to dislike with fervidness. The captain seemed to be in a fine disposition so I thought I’d take the opportunity to ask him about Captain Daquin. “Sir, may I ask you a question?”

  He nodded. “Certainly, Clyde, what is it?”

  “I was wondering about Captain Daquin. How did a Negro slave become a captain of his own ship?” He took his hat off for a moment presumably pondering his thoughts before exclaiming, “Well, the answer to that is a long one, but principally, he sails for a man named General L’Ouverture, who led a slave revolt on

  Hispaniola.” He put his hat back on, gazed out over the waves as if looking for something, and then continued, “Where we come from, a man’s station in life sometimes is determined by his race. Americans fought a revolution to free us from a tyrannical system that determined one’s station based on the class of his birth, but race was not taken fully into the freedoms won. That was the case with Hispaniola as well, but whether monarchy, democracy, or dictatorship, the majority will eventually win out. In Hispaniola, the majority were slaves, and they took over the minority white population. Captain Roland Daquin commands a formidable ship called the Cetus. He attacks slave ships to free the cargo and scuttle or take the ship into port for sell. He is in a dangerous business and has few friends on the open water. At sea, no culture, race, or nationality means much.”

  I said, “You mean he is a pirate!”

  “Yes, he sails without a letter of marque, no country would grant one and get involved in a slave rebellion, especially those who have slavery as an institution. Unfortunately, the French Republic is the only major power in the western hemisphere to abolish the practice of slavery, the French would give him a letter of marque, but they want control of Hispaniola back from L’Ouverture.” I was confused, why would the captain befriend a pirate? Captain Campbell saw my confusion and said, “Captain Daquin attacks slavers, he has been a friend to many American sailors and I have no great love for slave traders, so I tend to overlook his trouble. Men pursue different paths to their destiny, some chose an upright calling without waiver. Others are swayed by their own temptations. Roland is pursuing a greater act of gallantry, one to free his people from captivity, there are few who risk his punishment for failure.”

  He went on to explain that even though he knew many a slave owner in South Carolina, his many years at sea have taught him that a man’s worth is only what he believes it to be. Although slave owners in his home state were mostly decent, reliable Christians, the practice of procuring and selling slaves, sometimes breaking up families was not only morally wrong but also places such a weight of heartache that creates a setting of perpetual sadness. While the rewards for such an institution were great economically and solidified the influence of the southern states, the additional responsibility for the slave owner to care for other human beings outside their own family was also a great burden, one that he thought would soon end.

  I had seen many slaves, but I never knew a freed Negro. Uncle Daniel had two slaves that worked the fields on the farm. I would see them working sometimes, but I never talked with them. He did not mistreat them and they always appeared to be well feed and in good spirits. As I thought about it, what the captain said rang true, they were not free. They could not up and leave the farm as I did or skip work for a day and go swimming. They could not have a family unless facilitated by Uncle Daniel. It would only be at the mercy of Uncle Daniel if they were allowed to watch their children grow. How awful that must be to always be at the mercy of an owner. Uncle Daniel was an upright man, but what of an owner that was malevolent or heartless? I never really thought of my own freedom before, I suppose there had been many people throughout history that were slaves, just like the Hebrews in the Bible.

  Midshipmen Talbert and McCall were standing near and heard what the captain had said. The captain departed to retrieve something from his cabin which triggered Mr. Talbert to speak, “My father owns plenty of slaves, they’re only as good as the whip determines!”

  Mr. McCall said, “Your lack of sense is greatly indicative, Bart,” and walked away without explaining himself. Mr. Talbert looked as though he did not hear the comment. To some, the power of a slave owner might be as the captain had said a great responsibility to care for another human being; to provide for their needs and care for them in sickness. To others that responsibility has turned into nothing more than a power to do as they pleased. I thought Mr. Talbert would be the latter; someone who might abuse slaves for their own pleasure. Would I risk death for freedom as did Captain Daquin? I guess that depends of the station from which I came. I knew what it was like to be mistreated. I could not stand to stay in those circumstances long. Still I was not a slave and my father was not my master, so I could hardly understand the breadth of their plight, I don’t think anyone who has not been a slave could.

  Captain Campbell returned to the quarterdeck a few minutes later with Lieutenant Potts. The captain was giving him instructions on tasks to accomplish once we arrived in Charleston. One of the merchantmen that we had pulled from the wreck handed the captain a document which I figured was some kind of report. The merchant sailors were very somber. The crew of the Eagle attempted to raise their hopes, but the loss of their friends was a harsh reality and tore at their essence. One man requested some tobacco and was smoking his pipe that he saved from the wreck only because it was stuffed into his jacket. As he smoked, he stared upward looking at the sails. After a few moments, a sharp cracking sound pierced the air. Looking at the direction of the noise, we saw the man who was smoking, he had bitten off the end of his pipe. He was expressionless as he emptied the contents of his pipe over the side of the ship, then staring down at the water, just threw his pipe in and sat down next to the gunwale.

  None of the crew said anything. Frank came down from the rigging and saw that many of us were watching the man who did this strange act. He asked, “What’s the matter? Did something happen?”

  I replied, “Be quiet, Frank, nothing happened.”

  He persisted, “I know something happened, what as it?”

  I told him firmly that I would tell him later. We had not lost anyone from our crew, and as far as I knew, only Mr. Edwards knew the pain that man felt.

  Before arriving into Charleston, the marines began to expend some of their musket and pistol ammunition to practice marksmanship since they would be resupplied in port. The captain granted permission for them to lower the ship’s boat and fire from the stern at a canvas target on a pole extending from the boat in tow behind the ship. Lieutenant Baker oversaw the drill and after his marines had fired several volleys, organized seaman to take part in the training. Watching from a distance, Lieutenant Baker approached Charlie, Frank, and I and asked if we would like to fire the musket. My father had taught me how to fire a musket, but both Charlie and Frank had never fired a weapon. Lieutenant Baker pulled a handful of cotton from his coat pocket and held out his hand, “Take some and put it in your ears, it helps.” He advised us that we should always keep some with us and stuff it in our ears before battle—that way we would not suffer from the “ringing” afterward.

  We moved to the stern and watched a couple of marines load, aim, and fire the musket. A thin marine named Nelson remarked, “Ole Bessy here’s dependable as long as you handle her with care.” He further explained that the musket he was holding was a shorter Brown Bess than the typical musket used by the a
rmy. He pointed out the hammer, flint, flash pan, and fizzle as the key components to ensure the musket fires. He slowly described each step as he demonstrated the procedure to fire. He pulled out a paper cartridge, bit off the end, and poured a little powder in the flash pan above the trigger before emptying the rest down the barrel as he held it vertically. Then he put the ball and paper in the barrel, took out the ram rod and pushed the contents down the barrel. He explained how to aim and how to anticipate and compensate for the ship’s pitch and roll before firing. He carefully aimed and fired at the canvass target swaying on a pole on the ship’s boat about thirty yards away. “Ready to give a try?” he said cheerily.

  I took the rifle from him first and performed the same technique. The musket was heavy, more so than I remembered, and although I only fired a few times with my father, I knew the butt was going to burrow into my shoulder from the discharge. I squeezed the trigger igniting the powder and firing off the ball as I closed my eyes and felt the powder residue lightly sting my face. I opened my eyes and felt the dull pain in my shoulder and the familiar smoke obscuring my target. It was difficult to stand on the bouncing deck, brace for the discharge and aim at a moving target and fire with any sense that I knew where the ball was going to impact. Nelson advised supporting the musket on the railing to increase accuracy, which looked to help in getting my shot closer to the target. I enjoyed the challenge of firing several shots then handed the musket to Charlie who did the same. Charlie was a natural shot, hitting the canvass on the first try. When Frank took the musket, his nervousness was evident as he was sweating and slightly shaking before his attempt to load the gun. He followed Nelson’s instructions and steadied the musket on the rail and then fired.

  Nelson squawked, “Did you see a bird?” Frank was dumbfounded as Nelson looked at him then up in the air. “I thought maybe you were shooting at a bird since you fired up in the sky,” he said mockingly. “Did you have your eyes open?” Frank was flushed and said that he did. On his next attempt at firing the musket, he got much closer to the target. Then he fired a final time, squeezing the trigger as the ship pitched upward over a large wave. The distinct sound of wood splintering after his shot was met by Nelson cackling as he alleged, “I think you hit the boat, lad!”