The Power and the Glory (21 page)

“Thank you, Mr. Porter,” Sterrett said. “You may return to station. And may I remind you once again that when reporting to a superior officer, you must refrain from offering a personal opinion unless that opinion is specifically requested.”

“Aye, aye, sir. I do apologize, sir. It won't happen again.”

“It had best not, Mr. Porter.”

Sterrett answered the midshipman's salute, saw him off, then glanced up at the foremast and mainmast crosstrees. Lookouts had resumed their positions there, searching to westward for the missing two-masted merchant brig. He hesitated a moment, anticipating a cry of discovery from aloft. When none came, he turned aft to where Thomas Truxtun and the other officers had gathered.

Sterrett snapped a salute. “
Louisa Spaulding
is unaccounted for, Captain,” he reported.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Sterrett, thank you,” Truxtun replied. “We were about to discuss the possibilities. Mr. Rodgers, you were on deck when the storm struck. Did you notice her experiencing difficulties?”

“None, sir, except for the obvious. Being the most eastward, she was the first vessel hit. When the squall struck us, I was more concerned with
Constellation
.”

“Quite understandable. Mr. Carter? Mr. Waverly? Anything to add?”

“What I remember, sir,” the ship's master replied, the furrows of his brow wrinkled in thought, “is that she was carrying too much canvas when she was hit. She had hell to pay trying to take it in. When the storm hit us, though, I couldn't see much beyond our foredeck.” He gazed out westward, as they all did, to where stray beams of sunlight were beginning to break through the thick, grayish gloom. “If you were to ask me what I think, Captain, I'd say she tore her sails or otherwise lost control and was unable to lie to.” All of the merchant ships had orders to lie to under reefed main topsail and upper staysails in the event of violent weather and to remain that way until the storm had passed.

“Are you suggesting, Mr. Waverly, that you think
Louisa
was broached-to or pooped?”

“Either is a possibility, Captain. But had she broached-to or pooped, we'd likely have spotted her by now. She could not have drifted far, laid over like that. More likely she was simply carried away. Out there.” Again his gaze slid to westward.

Truxtun took a moment to estimate drift, current, wind conditions, and the lapse of time since the squall's onslaught. Before he could speak, a distant rumbling sounded to the west. A positioning signal? A plea for help? Or merely a final peal of thunder?

“Very well, Mr. Waverly,” he said, his mind made up. “We shall wear ship. Set her on a course west by south, a half south.” The captain
then addressed Midn. Harry Ayres on duty nearby. “Mr. Ayres, signal the convoy to assume search formation. Mr. Sterrett, please summon the boatswain. Mr. Dent, my compliments to Lieutenant Cutler and will he please join me on deck.”

Sterrett stepped forward, speaking trumpet in hand. “Pass word for the boatswain!”

Boatswain Frederick Bowles quick-stepped aft. As a senior petty officer he wore the standard Navy-issue loose-fitting shirt and trousers and buff vest. His single badge of authority, a polished silver boatswain's whistle, hung at his chest, suspended from a thin leather lanyard draped around his neck.

He saluted smartly. “You sent for me, Captain?”

“Yes, Mr. Bowles. Call all hands. We are about to wear ship in search of
Louisa
. After we've worn, I want the courses clewed up and up buntlines on the tops'ls. Be prepared to drop them at my command. And return hammocks to the nettings. Clear for action and make preparations for beating to quarters. Lieutenant Carter's Marines will assist you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Bowles whirled around and passed by Richard Cutler striding aft.

“Damage to the gun deck, Mr. Cutler?”

Richard saluted. “No, Captain,” he said. “Some loose shot rolling about is all. We secured the guns before the storm hit.”

“Good. Now let loose the guns, both sides, and open the ports. Double-shot the guns and stand by for further orders.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Carter.”

“Sir!”

“Once we have gear and furnishings stowed, deploy your Marines behind the hammocks with muskets at the ready. Summon the drummers and stand by to send men to the tops. You have my permission to unlock the magazine. Mr. Dent?”

“Captain!”

“Stand by to convey my orders to the gun deck.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” the young midshipman fairly shouted. He squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest, clasping his hands behind him in the age-old stance of a sea officer on his quarterdeck.

“All hands! Stations for wearing ship! Up mainsail and spanker! Brace in the yardarms! Up helm!” At Waverly's commands, the American frigate began the evolutions that brought her from a close haul on a
larboard tack, around twenty points on the compass stern-first through the wind, until the strengthening northeasterly breeze fell on her starboard quarter and she had her yards squared and jib sheets drawn and spanker hauled out. With less efficiency, the four merchantmen followed suit. Now on a westerly course, the five vessels in the convoy fanned out along a half-mile stretch of ocean, two merchantmen on each side of the frigate.
Constellation
sailed with her mainsails clewed up and her topsails brailed up as she went in search of the sixth vessel.

Within a quarter-hour the gloom had dissipated to where they could see a half-mile or so ahead. Regardless,
Constellation'
s officers continued to rely more on sound than sight. Yes, there it was again. Closer this time. Much closer. Suddenly, flashes of light flared within the murk, followed seconds later by a sequence of angry rumbles and then one—no, two—flashes to the right of the first flashes, along with milder rumbles.

“Mr. Rodgers,” Truxtun commanded, “let go the topsails. Mr. Waverly, please take the helm. Keep her steady as she goes. Gentlemen, we shall beat to quarters.”

Rodgers relayed the sailing order to Boatswain Bowles. Amid a twitter of whistle calls, he stepped forward and raised a speaking trumpet to his lips.

“
Beat to quarters!”

On the weather and gun decks, Marine drummers struck up a staccato tattoo that echoed through the ship, sending men hurtling to battle stations.

Below on the gun deck, Richard Cutler knelt near the stem of the frigate and peered through gun port number one, starboard side. He could not see much from that perspective, just enough to distinguish a pulse of pale yellow within the uniform gray ahead. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Then he heard it: the heavy thud of a gun's discharge.

He rose to his feet and walked along a deck strewn with sand and damp with water sucked out from the pumps. He sensed the eyes of every man upon him. Even without a verbal explanation, everyone on that gun deck understood that this was no drill. The drumbeat had ceased. The space became deathly quiet, save for the sound of seawater gurgling along the frigate's hull and the footfalls of powder monkeys delivering round shot and SIX-pound flannel bags of powder from the magazine.

“Is your gun ready?” Richard asked each gun captain, forcing his voice to sound nonchalant, as if he were inquiring after the man's health
or the welfare of his children. Each captain acknowledged. “Double shot, level aim. Understood?” Again each captain acknowledged.

Richard waited amidships until the head and spindly torso of John Dent appeared in the open hatchway above.

“Stand by to fire number fourteen gun, Mr. Cutler,” the midshipman shouted down.

“How much time, Mr. Dent?”

The midshipman glanced forward. “Ten minutes, sir.”

“Very well. I'm coming up.”

Richard climbed up to the weather deck. He faced aft and saluted Captain Truxtun, acknowledging his order. At the starboard mainmast chain-wale he clung to a weather shroud and searched the waters ahead. With the extra spread of canvas laid on,
Constellation
had gathered speed and was now closing the gap on the drama being acted out dead ahead.

A French brig was perhaps a quarter-mile away, her stern to the American frigate, her starboard guns—eight to a side, 12-pounders most likely—making small play of the two 6-pounder larboard guns being fired boldly but ineffectively by
Louisa Spaulding
. The two ships were half a cable length apart on more or less parallel courses
. Louisa
was in dire straits. Her sails had been ripped and holed by both storm and langrage, and her top-hamper was cut up and sliced through. She was effectively dead in the water, and her tormentor was acutely aware of her handicap. The French captain seemed to be biding his time and enjoying his victim's plight, like a jungle beast stalking a wounded prey, playing with it, taunting it, savoring the conquest that was, by all indications, his.

Richard strained to read the name on the stern of the French brig but could not. If this brig were not
Le Léopard
, as he hoped she was, she had to be a sister ship. His fists clenched. There was a debt to be settled here.

Returning below to the gun deck, he again peered out through gun port number one.
Constellation
was rapidly gaining on the brig.
Louisa
had ceased firing, either because she had lost her will to fight or she could no longer bring her guns to bear. Or perhaps she had seen what the French ship apparently had not yet noticed: an American frigate bearing down on them under three white pyramids of taut canvas, whitewater flying out from her bow, her length considerably longer than the Frenchman's, her firepower considerably greater.

The directive came shortly from Midshipman Dent. “Captain's compliments, Mr. Cutler, and you may fire number fourteen gun.”

Number fourteen was the sternmost gun on the starboard side—one of those braced within the captain's quarters—the last gun to bear on the approaching enemy. It carried authority nonetheless, and a firm warning to the brig to strike her colors. When the gun roared its challenge to windward, Richard, in company with everyone else on the frigate, expected the brig to haul down her ensign and surrender.

Incredibly, she did not, although her crew had clearly spotted the frigate bearing down on them and had heard the warning shot. Her deck and standing rigging had come alive with activity. Whether owing to some misplaced Gallic bravado, anger at losing a plump victim, or a conviction that an American warship would not fire upon a French vessel, her captain let fall the courses and made a run for it.

It was a fool's gamble. Not only was
Constellation
bigger and more powerful, she was also faster, even with her courses clewed up. Quickly she closed the distance between them, her forward guns coming to bear on the brig's stern, fifty yards to leeward. Still the brig refused to strike. Suddenly, two forward ports flashed fire. Ahead, off
Constellation'
s starboard bow, two tall spouts of water ranged up.

“
Eh bien,”
Richard muttered to himself. “
Si c'est la façon que vous le voulez
. . .” In a louder voice, he said, “Gun captains, at my command. Battery number one . . . as your guns bear . . .
fire
!”

Five gun captains yanked lanyards, sparking priming powder that raced to the barrels, ignited the main charge, and sent trucks squealing backward and round shot hurtling forward.

Richard strode down the deck, glanced out through gun port number six. He checked the quoins. They were halfway in as ordered, leveling the guns point-blank at the full length of the brig.

“Battery number two . . . on the uproll . . .
fire
!”

Five explosions sent five more trucks lurching backward. Orange flames and white sparks exploded out of the barrels, and acrid smoke curled back across the gun deck and out the larboard ports.

Richard peered out through gun port number eleven, fanning away the thick smoke to improve his vision. What he saw out there—a severely crippled vessel bobbing up and down on the waves like a wounded bird—convinced him to forgo a third salvo. However great his thirst for revenge, he had no stomach for senseless slaughter; 480 pounds of double shot from ten guns had done the job. Lieutenant Carter, in command of the smaller guns up on the weather deck, had apparently drawn the same conclusion. His guns went quiet as well. High above
in the fighting tops, the
thump!
and
pop!
of daisy-cutters and musketry became sporadic, then ceased altogether.

Silence enveloped the gun deck, save for the background clatter of men coughing, wheezing, and spitting. Richard walked amidships to the ladder leading up.

“Well done, lads,” he congratulated each gun crew as he passed by. “Be at your ease, but remain on station.”

On deck, Richard walked slowly aft, his gaze never leaving the brig now sagging off the wind astern. Her larboard railing and deckwork had been ravaged, splintered; and her main chain-wale had been shot away, jeopardizing the stability of her mainmast. At the base of the foremast an ugly white gash showed like teeth; below the chain-wale, not far above the water line, a round shot had smashed a jagged hole through a strake. Even her bowsprit had been shot through, cut in half, denying her jib and flying jib a base of support. Richard searched the after rigging for the ensign. He saw only its severed halyard being dragged behind in the sea. Off in the distance he heard the cheers and huzzahs of
Louisa'
s crew.

At the helm, Captain Truxtun returned his salute. “Well, Lieutenant,” he said with an approving nod, “you made short work of them, didn't you? Which is why, I assume, you did not engage the third battery?”