The Power and the Glory (15 page)

“That is what I have told you, have I not?”

“Yes, sir, you have.”

“Yet despite what I have told you, you remain unconvinced. Is it because you signed on for something other than convoy duty, which in fact you find rather dull? You would prefer something a bit more exciting, perhaps, an engagement with the enemy, yardarm to yardarm?”

Dent dropped his eyes. “No sir, I—”

“Be not timid, Mr. Dent!” Truxtun pronounced. “Stand up for what you believe! I respect that in a man, whatever his views, whatever his age. And I commend any man who seeks battle with his country's enemies. Too many do-gooders in Congress speak boldly from under their desks. I applaud a man who puts himself out there front and center, with feet squared.”

Dent nodded appreciatively.

“Captain, if I may,” the captain of Marines joined in. Lt. James Carter was of average height with whitish-blond hair and a no-nonsense look about him. The cerulean-blue dress coat draped over the back of his chair sported red lapels and cuffs, and red lining on the stand-up collar. On its right shoulder the tassels of a single gold epaulet gleamed in the shimmering light of a wide-bottomed candle ensconced on the dining table. “As you indicated when explaining our orders, sir,
if fired upon, we are permitted to return fire. But are we permitted such liberty only if and when we ourselves or a vessel in our charge is fired upon first?” It was a question for which every one of the 343 sailors serving in the ship desired an answer, for it underscored why many of them had signed on with
Constellation
: for hearth and home, yes; for honor and glory, of course; but primarily for prize money, to supplement an otherwise modest salary of fifteen dollars per month.

“Those are our orders, Mr. Carter,” Truxtun replied stiffly, adding in a more conciliatory tone, “although I am quick to point out that those orders are subject to change. They may already have changed. Three weeks ago I was at the Navy Department on Walnut Street, where I met with Mr. Stoddert.” He was referring to Benjamin Stoddert, the newly appointed secretary of the Navy, the first to hold that position within the newly created Navy Department, itself a subset of the War Department. “Among other items, Mr. Stoddert advised me that if the United States or one of its ships is attacked by a country that has declared war on us, our Constitution permits the president to act on his own authority to protect American interests. Under these circumstances, the United States may go to war without war actually being declared by Congress. Whether our current
guerre de course
with France qualifies as such an emergency will no doubt be debated for years to come. But for the moment, if the president believes it does, that view prevails.”

Silence ensued as each man pondered that statement. Then, ending the evening on a business note, Truxtun announced, “Gentlemen, since it appears certain that
Constellation
is sailing into war, we shall start preparing for battle tomorrow at four bells in the forenoon watch. Mr. Cutler will conduct gun drills in the morning and again in the afternoon. We shall drill twice every day, and we shall improve every day over the previous day's performance. If we do not, we shall drill again in the evening before supper and spirit rations—if I choose to issue spirit rations. We will drill, and we will drill, and we will drill until the gun crews are too exhausted to go on, and then we shall drill some more. We will drill until I am convinced that our crews are as skilled with the guns and small arms as any British crew afloat. I need not remind you gentlemen that British crews routinely fire three rounds every five minutes. That is a round every minute and a half, a rate almost twice that of the average French crew. It's a measure of excellence I expect our own crews to achieve. I will settle for nothing less.”

Richard Cutler smiled to himself, recalling the day years ago, during the war with England, when he had heard John Paul Jones exhort his officers using almost those exact words.

Truxtun scraped back his chair and stood up. His officers immediately followed suit. “Good evening to you, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure. Thank you for a delicious supper, and thank
you
, Mr. Sterrett, for that Bordeaux. It was exceptional. Let us credit the French for
something
, at least.”

 

THE NEXT MORNING at precisely ten o'clock, a young Marine drummer stationed amidships on the weather deck launched into a staccato tattoo. His frenzied beat was immediately taken up by a second drummer on the gun deck below. Crews sprang to battle stations, twelve men serving each of the fourteen 24-pounder guns bowsed up tight against the starboard and larboard sides of the frigate, twenty-eight long guns total, each packing enough firepower to break a hole through two feet of solid oak at a range of one thousand yards. On the weather deck, crews of six Marines manned the smaller 12-pounder guns.

Richard stood on the gun deck by the bilge pump afore the mainmast in his long blue dress coat with buff lining, half-lapels, and two vertical rows of brass buttons. In his right hand he held the quarter bill that listed the names of each gun crew and each man's assignment. With the captain's approval he had divided the gun deck batteries into three divisions—ten, ten, and eight. The guns in the first division were numbered one through five, larboard and starboard; the second division six through ten, larboard and starboard; and the third division eleven through fourteen, larboard and starboard. Each gun crew thus served two guns of the same number. It was an innovation recently decreed in
Marine Rules and Regulations
, a uniquely American document that nonetheless took its cue from the venerable
British Regulations and Instructions Relating to His Majesty's Service at Sea
.

With a practiced eye, Richard watched as the gunner's mate in charge of each crew assembled his men in position with the spongers, rammers, and wormers to do the job. Earlier, during the frigate's weeklong shakedown cruise, he had exercised the men in the evolutions of gun drill, which had changed little since the days of the Continental navy. Except that, by 1798, the linstock formerly used to fire a gun had yielded to the more efficient British-engineered bronze flintlock, which functioned much like the mechanism on a muzzle-loading musket.

The high-pitched squeals of boatswain's whistles reinforced the drumbeat, directing the sailors to clear the decks for action. Galley fires were extinguished, pumps were made ready, and sand was strewn around the deck. Topmen, the elite of any square-rigger, scampered aloft to reduce canvas to fighting sail—foresails, topsails, topgallants, and driver. Waisters on the weather deck worked in tandem with sailors stationed on the fighting tops and on footropes to lower the royal yardarms and clew up the fore and main courses until they hung loosely in their gear like curtains draped above a window. Belowdecks, men unhinged the canvas partitions that defined the officers' and captain's cabins and stowed them aft in steerage, along with artwork, chairs, desks, chests, and anything else portable that could splinter into deadly wooden shrapnel when struck by enemy shot. As a final measure, and for the same reason, the ships' boats were lowered over the side and towed behind.

With everyone and everything in its proper place, more or less, Captain Truxtun sent Midn. David Porter forward amidships to the large rectangular main hatch, its ornate latticework cover now removed and stowed.

Porter cupped his hands at his mouth. “Captain's compliments, Mr. Cutler, and you may begin the exercise!”

Richard returned the midshipman's salute. Facing forward, he brought a speaking trumpet to his mouth. “Cast loose the larboard guns!” As he pivoted aft to repeat the order, sailors on the fourteen larboard guns cast off the lashings that secured the guns to the ship's side and ran the guns inboard on their side tackle until checked by their breeching ropes. With the ten-foot length of the gun inside the ship, sailors removed the wooden tampion plugging the muzzle and made ready to ram a flannel bag of powder down the bore. This would be followed by a round shot taken from a shot rack amidships, followed by a wad made of rope yarn to secure the ball within.

“Run out the guns!”

Some men in quick time, others less so, heaved on train tackle and hauled the six-thousand-pound guns forward on their red-painted trucks until the front end of the carriages banged against the bulwarks and the gun muzzles protruded their maximum distance through the square ports. When all was ready, gun captains lined up a notch filed on the top of the base ring with another notch on the swell of the muzzle and took aim at an imaginary target at sea.

Richard gave the order. “
Fire!”

Gun captains yanked hard on lanyards attached to flintlocks. One metallic
click!
after another resounded around the gun deck.

“Run in your guns!”

The process was repeated, again and again and again, with the added step of swabbing out the bore with a wet piece of sheepskin affixed to the end of a long wooden staff to extinguish lingering sparks or a smoldering piece of flannel that might later drift out and upward to ignite dry canvas—or worse, prematurely set off a newly inserted bag of powder. Then another cartridge was rammed home, the gun was run out above a protest of squeaking wheels, and the lanyard yanked hard again.

Together with Edward Oates, a former Royal Navy chief gunnery officer, Richard paced the deck back and forth, back and forth, from the camboose stove forward to the captain's quarters aft, now open to view. He held a watch in one hand as he encouraged one crew, instructed another, reprimanding a gun captain only when he chose to make an example of an error or when he noticed one of his crew slacking off.

As the sun approached its zenith and commissioned officers and midshipmen were summoned to the ship's helm for a noon sighting, Richard called an end to the exercise. Men stopped in their tracks and bent over with hands on knees, some panting hard.

“Well done, lads!” Richard shouted out. “You've earned your gill of grog this noon—after ship inspection.” That rally cry inspired a weak round of cheers.

That was as far as the evolutions went that morning, although they were repeated several more times that afternoon while under full sail, this time to allow the convoy of fourteen brigs, schooners, and ship-rigged merchant vessels to make decent headway toward their destination. And they continued to fire imaginary shot, as they had done since the shakedown cruise.
Constellation
carried a limited supply of ammunition in her magazine, and Truxtun wanted to conserve it.

“Overall I am quite content with what I observed today,” he allowed in his after cabin during his nightly seven o'clock meeting with his officers. The western sky offered a brilliant display of red, yellow, and pink, and the evening muster of divisions at the start of the second dogwatch had passed without incident. Outside the closed door, a Marine sentry in blue uniform and white cross-belts stood at stiff attention.
The officers had covered several routine issues and were now broaching meatier matters. “Your thoughts, Mr. Cutler? Are you satisfied with today's performance?”

“Quite satisfied, sir. The men continue to go above and beyond what is demanded of them, and much is being demanded. We still have far to go, but after observing the men today, I have every confidence we'll get there.”

“Which is why you felt justified in declaring ‘up spirits' this noon?”

Richard gave Truxtun a puzzled look. “Justified, sir? I don't understand.”

Truxtun grimaced. “Mr. Cutler, I shall not argue the merits of what you did; nor did I wish to gainsay my lieutenant in front of the ship's company, especially over a subject as sensitive as rum rations. I, too, prefer to reward men for hard work. You have heard me say many times that sailors are better led by force of character and example than by threat of the lash. But the fact remains that
Constellation
is not one of your family's merchant vessels on which you may dispense rum at your pleasure. She is a ship of war and therefore subject to strict regulations. Do I make myself clear?”

Richard met his captain's hard glare. “You do, sir. But with respect, the regulations state—”

“The regulations
state
, Mr. Cutler, that the issuance of rum shall be the custom of our American Navy. A
custom
, I need not remind you, is subject to the captain's approval. Did you not hear me say, just yesterday in this cabin, that I may withhold spirit rations when and if I so choose?”

That was not what Richard recalled hearing the captain say. Nonetheless, there was only one possible response. “Yes, sir. I apologize, sir.”

“Very well. Your apology is accepted, Mr. Cutler. And may this serve as a lesson to all you officers. In the future, you must seek my approval on all matters of protocol. Am I understood?”

He was.

“Now then, Mr. Cutler, on a far more positive note, I quite agree that the men are showing admirable improvement. I therefore believe it is time for us to exercise the guns with live shot. We need the practice, and one day of live exercise will do our supply no harm. I have every confidence we can resupply from the British once we reach Port Royal.”

“I understand, sir.”

“We never know,” Truxtun went on, “when we might find a French dog sniffing about on the horizon. Mr. Waverly,” he said, changing course and settling his gaze upon the sailing master seated at the other end of the table. “For a man not known for reticence, you have been surprisingly quiet this evening. You have now had several days to observe the ways of our ship. What insights might you have for us?”

The sailing master, Nate Waverly, was the oldest and most seasoned sailor on board the ship. His sailing credentials dated back to before the war with England, when he had signed on as cabin boy on HMS
Rose,
based in Newport, Rhode Island. From there, he had climbed his way up the petty officer ladder to quartermaster's mate. When war threatened, he jumped ship and joined the Continental navy, serving as quartermaster of the frigate
Providence
, twenty-eight guns, until she was captured by the Royal Navy. When the war ended, he returned to the maritime trade and mastered the intricacies of navigation, log-keeping, and maintaining a ship in proper trim whatever the conditions at sea.