The Power and the Glory (27 page)

“She's hoisting the tricolor, Captain!”

“
L'Insurgente
!” he heard the cry of a sharp-eyed sailor.

Richard cursed under his breath. America had a score to settle with this thirty-four-gun French frigate. American blood was on her decks. God alone knew how many merchant vessels she had seized, how many innocent sailors she had dispatched to the ocean floor. And she had taken
Retaliation
off the coast of Saint Kitts and imprisoned her crew.

“Beg pardon, sir, but why is she running from us? Why show us her heels?” asked Cyrus Moffett. At age twelve he was the youngest and shyest of the eight midshipmen on board. His straight blond hair was abruptly cut off at the nape, and his face was badly scarred by a childhood bout with chicken pox. Assigned to number two gun, he had come over to where Richard was peering out through gun port number three.

Richard glanced over at the chubby preadolescent whose father was a senator from Rhode Island and a personal friend of Thomas Truxtun. Like the other midshipmen he was dressed in white breeches and a loose-fitting shirt under a plain blue undress coat. Cyrus blinked hard as he returned Richard's look and tried to keep his lower lip from quivering. Despite the cool ocean wind sweeping in through the open ports, beads of sweat had formed high on his brow under the rim of his cocked hat and were trickling down his peach-fuzzed cheeks.

“You'll have to ask her captain, Cyrus,” Richard said in a confidential, off-handed tone. Calling a midshipman on duty by his first name went against naval regulations. Nonetheless, it helped ease the lad's anxiety. Richard well remembered his own fear and anxiety as a young midshipman sailing into his first battle. “But I suspect he has orders to avoid a fight.”

“Why, sir? If I might ask?”

“His mission is to destroy enemy commerce, not to pick a fight with a man-of-war and put at risk one of the few frigates the French have in these waters.”

“I see, sir. I had not thought of that.” A hopeful lilt entered his voice when he asked, in hushed tones, “So you think we won't engage?”

Richard shook his head. “To the contrary. We
will
engage if our captain has anything to say about it, and I believe he does. Now, return
to station, Mr. Midshipman Moffett. Do your duty. Make your family proud.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Moffett said, backing away reluctantly.

More excited shouts from above. “She's taking in her t'gallants!” Then, louder, “She's hauling her wind!”

Richard's eyes swept the gun deck. Gun crews were at their assigned posts, their ports open, implements ready, each gun loaded, extra powder and round shot secured nearby. Everything appeared in order. He touched his tricorne hat to Andrew Sterrett, stationed aft, and stepped up the broad wooden ladder to the weather deck.
Constellation
remained under full sail, despite the threatening clouds approaching fast from the east. Ahead,
L'Insurgente
, her sail plan mirroring that of the American vessel, had come to the wind and was sailing north-northeast directly into the path of the oncoming storm. Apparently, Richard mused, her captain was gambling on the storm providing some means of escape.

Amid a shrill of boatswain's whistles
Constellation
swung to starboard on a course to cut her off, sailing as close to the wind as she could lie.

For the moment, Truxtun controlled the weather gauge, normally an advantageous position that allowed a ship to windward of another ship to dictate battle tactics. But under these circumstances that advantage came at a price.
Constellation
was heeling hard to leeward in pursuit of an enemy on a slightly less than parallel course. Her larboard guns—those that would come to bear on this tack—had their ports clamped shut to prevent seawater from washing in.

Truxtun passed word forward: run out the windward guns.

Richard relayed the order below. Moments later
Constellation
feathered into the wind and the starboard leeches of her great square sails began to slacken and shiver. As soon as the sharp heel came off her, gun crews on the starboard side heaved on ropes and pulleys to haul the massive iron beasts up the slight incline of deck until their muzzles protruded from their ports and their carriages bumped against the hull. When gun captains verified that the guns were secured,
Constellation
fell off the wind and back on course. The added weight extended to windward helped to stabilize the frigate and added another knot or two of speed.

That advantage was lost minutes later when the squall struck the American frigate, forcing her over to leeward. Gear stowed loosely belowdecks came undone, the noise of the crashing and banging audible over the shriek of the wind. Men caught unprepared on deck lost
their footing and careened hard against the larboard bulwarks. Up on the weather deck and in the rigging, sailors in the eye of the onslaught grabbed hold of shrouds, spars, ratlines, anything they could hang on to for dear life. Another loud
CRACK!
and the upper studdingsail boom went by the boards.

“Up helm!” John Rodgers yelled through a speaking trumpet. He had his left arm wrapped around the mizzenmast and his left leg braced out. Four helmsmen, fighting to maintain their footing, gripped the spokes of the double wheel and battled the helm over. Slowly, slowly, the frigate turned into the wind. “Let fly all sheets!” Rodgers roared.

As the punishing strain on the top-hamper eased, sailors released sheets from their belaying pins on fife rail and pin rail. Canvas rumbled, then thundered in almighty protest as
Constellation
, the power off her, rounded instinctively head on into the driving squall and came to a standstill. Gale-force winds screamed in the rigging as big droplets of blood-warm rain pounded her decks and cascaded into the sea from her scuppers. The storm blew over quickly, and
Constellation
was back on the chase, her sails once again sheeted home.

Ahead, the howling hammer of wind bashed
L'Insurgente
just as her crew was laid out on the yards in a desperate attempt to reduce canvas. It was too little, too late. The Americans watched in horror as the French frigate's main topmast snapped at the cap, taking the sailors on the main topmast yard down with it. Arms and legs flailing, they tumbled onto the deck or into the sea below. Seconds later, a tangle of spars, rigging, and sails crashed down on top of them. Crews on deck attacked the debris with axes and cutlasses, slashed it to bits, and heaved it overboard.

Escape, always a gamble for
L'Insurgente
, was no longer in the cards. As the storm passed over her and the seas calmed, she stood on a starboard tack and ran out her guns to fight.

Constellation
crossed
L‘Insurgente'
s wake and ran under her lee. Six bells in the afternoon watch sounded as the American frigate closed to within pistol shot range. Those on deck could see and hear a French officer standing by the larboard taffrail shouting through a speaking trumpet.

“What's he saying, sir?”

Richard vaguely recognized the voice of Frederick Bowles behind him. He was listening intently to the exchange taking place in English and held up a hand for quiet.
Constellation
and
L'Insurgente
were both sailing to northward on more or less parallel courses. The American
frigate stood to leeward of the Frenchman, whose once graceful profile had been desecrated by the loss of her main topmast.

“That's the first lieutenant speaking,” Richard said, as much to himself as to the boatswain. “He's saying that his captain wants to parley with us.”

They waited for Truxtun's response, which was quick in coming. “I have this to say to your captain,
monsieur
,” he yelled through a trumpet. “Strike your colors or I shall fire into you!”

Seconds elapsed in translation before the French captain seized the speaking trumpet for himself. “
Reddition sans combat n'est pas une option!”
he shouted back defiantly.

Truxtun's tone in reply was equally defiant. “
Comme vous voulez, monsieur!”
Truxtun rapped out an order to Midn. John Dent, who strode forward at a good clip.

“Mr. Cutler, Captain Truxtun's compliments and you may fire the starboard guns in rotation!”

Richard clambered down the ladder and strode forward. At number one gun he peered through the port, checked the quoin, stepped aside, and nodded to the gun captain: “
Fire!”

At number two gun: “
Fire!”

At number three gun: “
Fire!”

One by one, forward to aft,
Constellation‘
s great guns unleashed fourteen rounds of 24-pound shot that streaked toward
L'Insurgente'
s larboard hull at 1,200 feet per second. With each orange-tongued discharge, a red-painted carriage screeched inboard and acrid smoke swept across the deck. Gun crews wormed out, sponged out, rammed home, ran out the guns, and prepared to fire a second round.

The intermittent
boom!
of 6-pounder guns echoed down from the weather deck, and the
pop!
of daisy-cutters came from high up on the fighting tops, all punctuated by the intermittent
crack!
of the Marines' musketry. A savage outpouring of double shot, grape, and lead pummeled
L‘Insurgente'
s hull, rigging, decks, and bulwarks. Below, on the gun deck, the first rotation had spent its course and the fourteen guns were repeating the sequence.

L‘Insurgente
responded with a broadside of her own, most of her guns aimed high, at the rigging. One shot aimed level slammed against
Constellation'
s hull near where Richard and Andrew Sterrett were standing by gun number seven. Instinctively they recoiled from the impact. But the ball bounced off the oaken hull as though it were a rubber ball hitting a wall, inflicting no damage whatsoever. The two
officers exchanged a glance, the thought of one read clearly upon the face of the other:
Quercus virens
, the southern live oak at the heart of their ship's frame, had just proved its mettle.

“She's changing course!” someone shouted. The lieutenants peered out through the open port.
L'Insurgente
had indeed changed course—to come directly at them. A horde of French Marines and sailors had gathered on her forecastle and gangways, the polished steel of their pikes, axes, and cutlasses reflecting the afternoon sun.

“They mean to board us!” a young sailor at gun number five cried out, his voice laced with panic. Without another word he raced aft past the two lieutenants, toward the ladder leading below to the presumed safety of the berthing deck. The Marine sentry assigned to the hatches to prevent flight had, for whatever reason, left his post.

“Hold!” Sterrett yelled at the frightened lad. “Return to station, Harvey! Now! I warn you!”

Harvey ignored the warning, kept running. Sterrett drew his pistol, cocked it, took aim, and fired. Harvey fell, screaming, a yard shy of the ladder. He clapped his hands on the upper thigh of his left leg and writhed in agony.

“To your stations!” Richard shouted to the gun crews watching in mute horror.

“Prepare to rake her, starboard guns!” John Dent cried from above. That call to arms brought everyone back to the task at hand.

The change of course had placed the Frenchman in a dangerous position.
Constellation
, seizing advantage of her opponent's vulnerability, ranged ahead of
L'Insurgente
under spanker, topsails, and jib. Truxtun ordered her braces and helm swung over and bore down on an enemy that had apparently realized the mistake and was now struggling desperately to present her broadside.

Constellation
tore across
L‘Insurgente'
s bow.

“As your guns bear . . .
fire!”
Richard shouted.

One by one as they came to bear on the enemy's bow, the guns sent round shot and canister shot streaking down the length of the Frenchman's crowded weather deck. The shot pulverized the bones and spirit of five, ten, fifteen men, and anything else it touched until it crashed against something hard, a mast or a gun on its truck, upending it with an ugly clash of iron. Case shot and langrage from the smaller elements of
Constellation'
s arsenal added to the bloody carnage until the American frigate had sailed past and could no longer bring her long guns to bear.

Down on the gun deck, Richard's crews could see little of the wreckage their guns had wrought.
Constellation
had moved swiftly past
L'Insurgente
, and her ports provided limited visibility. Only when
Constellation
had rounded up on a parallel course ahead of her enemy did Richard feel it safe to venture topside for a look.

“Larboard guns!” he commanded before he went up, an order that sent crews scurrying across the deck to the guns on the opposite side. Privately, to Sterrett, he said, “Get Harvey below, Andrew. Balfour may be able to patch him up. He's done for either way, but at least let's try to give him his day in court.”

“I'll see to it,” Sterrett replied, both his expression and his tone suggesting inner conflict. In truth, Richard had been as shocked as the gun crews by what Sterrett had done. Not because of the act itself, or the ethics or legality involved, but because it had been so out of character.

“I'm going topside. The deck is yours.”

On the weather deck, Richard scanned
Constellation‘
s top-hamper. He could see damage, plenty of it, although at first blush none of it seemed serious. The starboard mainmast shrouds and braces had taken hits, a foremast yard was lost, a chunk of wood had been blown out of the lower topmast, and enemy shot had torn gaping holes in the courses and topsails.
L'Insurgente,
limping along behind them and off to larboard, had suffered a far worse fate. Her mizzen topmast was gone, and without her main topmast she had only her foremast fully serviceable.