A Call to Arms (13 page)

Paige stepped in close. “Preble sure can be one mean son-of-a-bitch,” he whispered. “I swear his sickness has gone to his head.”

Jamie glanced about the deck. Haraden and the others on duty were well out of earshot. “Have a care, Octi,” he cautioned nonetheless, adding, somewhat lamely, “Command is no easy matter. Who knows how you or I would handle it? Besides, he's not doing anything outside Navy regulations.”

“Actually, he is,” Izard put in. “Stokes is to receive thirty-six lashes, but Navy regulations clearly specify a maximum of twelve.”

“Mr. Greenleaf,” Jamie said, referring to
Constitution's
second lieutenant, “explained that to me. Stokes was caught stealing a Spaniard's knife, and he was intoxicated at the time. When the theft was reported to Lieutenant Gordon, and Lieutenant Gordon confronted him, Stokes was insolent in front of the men. Mr. Gordon had no choice. He had to put Stokes on report, even though he believed Stokes when he said that the Spaniard had it in for him and that he didn't intend to steal the knife. Mr. Gordon also realized that it was the liquor doing the talking, not Stokes. Stokes would never say things like that sober. Still, Mr. Gordon had no choice.

“Stokes is a good man and an excellent seaman,” Jamie continued. “He's no thief, and he respects the chain of command as much as anyone. I can't imagine why he broke into the liquor rations and acted the way he did. But the facts are what they are and the captain cannot ignore them. Stokes committed three violations: stealing, drunkenness, and insolence to an officer. Three violations times twelve lashes for each offense equals thirty-six lashes. You may not find that sort of math in naval regulations, but you
will
find it in the captain's cabin. On this cruise, that's all that matters.”

“Poor bastard,” Paige commented.

“Well, my good fellows,” Izard said with forced joviality, “I'm off to my rounds. See you at six bells.”

A
T
10:00, six bells in the forenoon watch, boatswains' pipes summoned all hands to witness punishment.
Constitution
continued on her eastward course under reduced sail with only a skeleton crew to handle her.

The commissioned officers took position on the quarterdeck directly behind Preble. They were dressed much like the captain if somewhat
less grandly. Farther behind and to Preble's left stood the frigate's eight midshipmen, all in a row and dressed in crisp blue and white. To starboard, John Hall, the hard-bitten captain of the Marine guard, offered for the captain's review the double row of Marines lining the starboard bulwark in spotless blue uniforms, their brightly polished sea-service muskets gleaming in the bright morning sun.

Assembled by divisions from the mainmast almost to the bow, their backs to the larboard railing, was the ship's company, many of them dressed in the widely accepted though not yet officially sanctioned sailor dress code of loose-fitting white trousers, shirt and vest under a short jacket, black neckerchief, and black low-crowned hat.

At a stirring of drums all eyes swung to the forward hatchway. John Burchard, the master-at-arms, summoned four barefoot and shackled prisoners up the ladder from the gun deck. The prisoners appeared stunned by the men arrayed in formal ranks all the way from the ladder to the taffrail at the very stern of the ship. Each man blinked and averted his eyes, whether from the sun's glare or from the sight of his shipmates solemnly watching him. As the Marine drummer continued his mournful tattoo, the four prisoners slowly, reluctantly, shuffled over to the bulwark nettings adjacent to the larboard entry port. John Stokes led the way. Last in line was Anthony Guerrier, a lanky, tow-headed French-Canadian lad of seventeen who was well liked in the forecastle. Guerrier trembled as he shambled along, his gaze held hard to the feet of the Dutchman plodding along in front of him. Now and then he swiped at his eyes with a shackled wrist.

When the prisoners were gathered before the entry port the drumming ceased abruptly. John Stokes was singled out from the others and brought forth to the nettings. At Boatswain Cannon's command, he turned and faced Captain Preble, who was standing rigidly on the quarterdeck.

“Seaman Stokes,” Preble proclaimed into the ensuing silence, “do you understand the offenses of which you have been accused and found guilty? And the sections of the
Act for the Better Government of the Navy
into which your offenses fall?”

“I do, Captain.” Stokes' reply was so soft that the midshipmen, stationed farthest aft, had to strain to hear him.

Preble then put a question to the quarterdeck. “Does any officer here present wish to speak on behalf of this man?”

It was a traditional yet normally rhetorical question. Few officers ever spoke up at such a moment. Jamie Cutler had nonetheless steeled himself to do just that. He advanced one step in front of the line of midshipmen. “Captain, if you please, I wish to speak.”

Preble raised his eyebrows. “Yes, Mr. Cutler?”

Jamie faced his captain. “Sir, Seaman Stokes serves in my division. I have never had occasion to put him on report. To the contrary, he has been an exemplary member of the crew. He has obeyed my every command. Until this unfortunate incident his performance has been a credit to his division and to this ship. I therefore wish to vouch for him, and I request with the utmost respect that he be granted leniency.”

Preble's expression remained unchanged. “I see. Are there other such requests?”

To Jamie's surprise, Ralph Izard advanced one step to stand beside him. “I too wish to vouch for Seaman Stokes, Captain.”

“And I, Captain,” Octavius Paige proclaimed on Jamie's other side.

Preble pondered his response, then: “Thank you for your remarks, gentlemen. Your praise of Seaman Stokes and your loyalty to each other are commendable. Your comments shall be duly recorded in the ship's log.” He faced forward. “Mr. Cannon, you may proceed with punishment. Seize the prisoner up!”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

At Cannon's command, two of his mates removed Stokes' shirt and ordered him to turn around. As Stokes' hands were being tied to the bulwark nettings high above him, a third boatswain's mate removed a sinister-looking two-foot length of thick rope from a red baize bag. Dangling down from the end of that rope were nine lengths of thinner cord, each about half a yard long with three knots set in at small intervals near the tail end.

Preble removed his hat.

“Off hats!” Cannon commanded. The entire ship's company complied. Stokes was offered a bullet to bite down on but refused it. “Boatswain's Mate O'Neill, do your duty!”

Nine viper tongues lashed out, striking Stokes with such force that his torso arched forward from the sudden searing pain.

“One!” the master-at-arms cried out.

Lash followed horrific lash. By the tenth wallop, red welts crisscrossed Stokes' naked back, oozing blood as the hard knots on the cords' ends ripped deep into flayed flesh and muscle, each blow sending bits of bloody tissue into the air and onto the deck. At Burchard's cry of “Twelve!”—and again at his cry of “Twenty-four!”—the boatswain's mate on duty was relieved by another boatswain's mate wielding a fresh arm and a fresh cat. Their vicious and violent assaults finally made the flinty, red-haired Englishman scream out in anguish.

Closing his eyes to the screams, Jamie felt the warm flow of vomit rising into his throat. He swallowed hard, forcing it back down, silently commanding himself to stand firm, to think of something, anything, that might see him through this. Who could forget that terrible morning two weeks ago when Thomas Baldwin, at age fourteen the youngest of the midshipmen, vomited onto the deck during a flogging and then collapsed in a dead faint onto his own filth. That sorry incident had not won him respect anywhere in the ship.

At the cry of “Thirty-six!” it was finally over, for Stokes. Released from his bindings, he slumped down and had to be coaxed up by two shipmates who helped him hobble across the weather deck and below to the ministrations of Dr. James Wells, the ship's surgeon. An Irishman took his place at the netting, then a Dutchman, their toughened bodies and hardened psyches taking the prescribed twelve lashes with hardly a whimper. When it came the Canadian's turn, the lad was trembling so hard that he required the steadying hand of a boatswain's mate in order to stand and face his captain.

“Seaman Guerrier,” Preble intoned for a fourth time this morning, “do you understand the offense of which you have been accused and found guilty?”

Guerrier stood numb.

“Answer the captain!” Cannon admonished.

Guerrier could not speak. He could only nod.

“Then tell me, son: will you will ever again fall asleep at your post while on duty?” Preble's suddenly kind tone was not only unexpected, it seemed entirely out of character.

Guerrier shook his head no.

“Answer the captain!” Cannon barked a second time.

“No, Cap'm,” Guerrier croaked, his eyes pleading for mercy.

Preble stared down into the dark, pleading eyes. “I believe you, lad,” he said. “And because I do, I pardon you. You may return to duty.” He put on his hat.

“On hats!” Cannon bellowed.

Guerrier's relief was so intense that he fell to his knees with his hands clasped as in prayer. The boatswain's mate had to pry his hands apart to remove the shackles.

F
OUR DAYS LATER
, as
Constitution
battled light and variable winds off Cape Saint Vincent, Captain Preble learned from the merchant brig
Jack,
homeward bound to Cape Ann, that Capt. William Bainbridge of the
frigate
Philadelphia
had arrived in Gibraltar and, after a brief holdover, had sailed on in search of two Tripolitan vessels reported to be cruising near the Spanish port of Alicante. Preble became more anxious than ever to reach Gibraltar when he heard that two enemy vessels had been sighted so close to
Constitution's
current position. But adverse headwinds and calm seas had set in, and because
Constitution
was built for war, not for speed, it took nearly a week for the frigate to finally draw near the Spanish port of Cádiz.

“On deck!” a lookout cried from the foremast topgallant yard.

“Deck, aye!” William Lewis called up.

“Sails on the horizon!”

“Where away?”

“To the sou'east, sir. She's ship-rigged, just ahead.”

Lewis relayed the lookout's observation to Lieutenant Greenleaf, the senior watch officer, standing by the ship's wheel afore the mizzenmast. “Cates has spotted a vessel of size, sir,” he said, saluting. “She's not far ahead.”

“What exactly does that mean, Mr. Lewis?” Greenleaf fired back. “
How
far ahead? What is her point of sail? How does she shape her course?” The questions came fast and furiously at the startled midshipman.

“The lookouts are trying to determine that, sir. It's hard to make out much of anything in this haze.”

“I daresay you're right, Mr. Lewis,” the second lieutenant conceded with a frustrated sigh, “but we
must
have answers, and we must have them quickly. Please inform the captain of the sighting.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As Lewis disappeared down the aft companionway ladder, Greenleaf passed word for the boatswain.

“We shall clear for action, Mr. Cannon,” Greenleaf directed him. “Advise the gun captains to loose the guns and stand by for further orders.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Preble appeared moments later as drumrolls echoed across the deck. On the weather deck, Marines were standing by the fourteen 12-pounder long guns. The grinding squeal of wooden wheels sounded from the gun deck as the thirty 24-pounder guns were freed from their lashings and hauled inboard.

Midshipman Lewis approached the helm, touched his hat, and waited.

“What do we have, Mr. Greenleaf?” Preble inquired.

“Good evening, sir. Seaman Cates reports sails of consequence directly ahead of us. As yet we cannot determine either her position or her course.”

“How far off is she?”

“We are trying to determine that, too, Captain. This damnable mist had concealed her until just a few minutes ago. I have ordered the guns loosed and await your orders.”

“Very well,” Preble muttered. He scanned the waters ahead, then looked up at the fast-darkening, overcast sky. He was about to add an observation when a lookout's panicked cry brought him up short. It was followed by another cry from the mainmast, and then another from the mizzen.

“On
deck there! The ship lies directly ahead
! Holy sweet Mother of Jesus, we're practically on top of her!”

“
Helm hard to starboard
!” Preble cried out.

Instantly the two quartermaster's mates at the helm brought the great wheel over. As
Constitution
turned into the fluky wind, the leeches of her topsails began to shudder and her foresails to droop and flap impotently.

“Hold her steady!” Preble ordered. “Mr. Lewis, I will have round shot in the carriage guns and the starboard guns run out. Handsomely, now!”