The Power and the Glory (8 page)

Truxtun paused at the broad, sturdy ladder. “Andrew Sterrett is my third lieutenant. He comes from a good family here in Baltimore, and he has impressive bluewater experience for someone his age. Which, by the bye, is twenty-two. John Rodgers is my first. At the moment he is with his family in Havre de Grace, a town north of here on the Chesapeake. It also happens to be the home of the Cecil Iron Works, where I plan to purchase the guns for this ship. And to our further good fortune, John's father is a lifelong friend of the foundry's owner.

“The cost?” Truxtun asked, picking the question from Richard's mind. “The cost is $225 per 24-pound gun. That adds up to a bit more than $5,000 just to arm the gun deck. Add another $1,500 or so for the smaller guns on the weather deck, and another $500 for swivel guns, and you have the grand total. Wouldn't want to be responsible for
that
bill, eh, Mr. Cutler?”

“No indeed, sir,” Richard agreed. He made a mental note of what Truxtun had just said and stored it away for future use.

Truxtun clambered down the pinewood steps and turned aft. Richard followed behind, taking note of the gun deck, empty save for neatly stacked piles of heavy canvas panels that someday would define the captain's quarters, now open to view. As he walked past a wasp-waisted drum—the bottom half of the capstan he had seen on the deck above—he ran his fingers along the smoothly polished oak base and the twelve iron pigeonholes set higher up. Someday soon, sailors would insert metal bars into those holes and push together to hoist the ship's anchor from the river bottom.

“Mind your head,” Truxtun cautioned, as he made ready to descend to the next deck. “We're heading for the orlop. There's something down there I want to show you.”

They did not linger on the berthing deck. There was not much to see beyond additional stacks of canvas panels and jalousie doors that would define the officers' cabins located on either side of the wardroom, which was directly beneath the captain's cabin. Slicing down through
a circular opening cut out of the deckhead above was the mizzenmast, stepped below on the lowest deck, the orlop. Forward, toward the bow of the ship, the crew would someday sling their hammocks. In the open space between the crew's quarters and the wardroom, as on most naval vessels, would be quarters for the ship's complement of Marines, a human barricade that protected the officers aft from the crew forward should any thoughts of mutiny arise.

Richard followed Truxtun down to where, normally, the most fetid odors of man and ship festered. Today, Richard's nose was filled with the more appealing scent of freshly hewn Carolina pine and red cedar. Truxtun struck steel on flint from a tinderbox and lit two whale oil lanterns hooked on the base of the ladder. He handed one to Richard and kept the other for himself. Together they moved forward on the orlop as though into some dark cavern. Except that in here, Richard had to remove his hat and stoop low, his six-foot frame a full foot taller than the distance between deck and deckhead. They crept forward, Truxtun in the lead, away from the ship's magazine, already sheathed in copper sheeting, past the midshipmen's mess and the cockpit where the ship's surgeon would ply his trade, to an area just forward of the stepped mainmast. Here, in the light admitted by two deadlights of thick Wil-liamsburg glass, their vision improved slightly. A short way farther on, approximately amidships, Truxtun raised his lantern.

“This is what I want to show you, Mr. Cutler. Do you recognize them?”

Richard raised his own lantern. In the dim light he observed what appeared to be wooden supports about a foot thick and two feet wide cut into the deckhead that followed the curve of the ship's hull all the way down to the keelson. He counted twelve such supports, six per side—three running forward and three running aft.

“I've never seen their like before,” he allowed, “and I don't remember what they're called. But I suspect their purpose is to prevent hogging.” He was referring to a potentially disastrous flaw in ship construction that under certain weight and buoyancy conditions forced the ship's bow and stern to droop and her keel and bottom to arch upward.

Truxtun lowered his lantern. “You are correct, Mr. Cutler. They are called diagonal riders, and they are there for the purpose you specified. Without them, a ship of
Constellation'
s length and beam would likely founder in a storm. The shipwrights in this yard might take their merry time with things and frustrate me no end, but I do credit them for knowing their business. Speaking of which, did you know that David
Stodder, the owner of this shipyard, learned his trade in your hometown of Hingham? It's true,” he said to Richard's startled expression. “At the yard of a fellow named Jeremiah Stodder, a relative of sorts. Ah, I see you recognize the name though apparently you've never made the connection. In any event, I had my doubts about Humphrey's so-called innovations in ship design, but I am willing to put those reservations to rest, at least until her sea trials. Those trials will tell us the true story.”

“She
is
a fine ship, sir.”

 

IN SHEER SIZE, Captain Truxtun's cabin emulated the after cabin of a large British warship, running athwartship the entire thirty-foot width of the frigate, from the larboard to the starboard quarter. Today, size was about the only comparison one could make. Whereas a British warship housed its commander luxuriously, precious little graced the captain's day cabin on board
Constellation
beyond a rectangular table placed directly beneath the skylight, a small cedar cabinet off to the side, and four straight-back wooden chairs. Directly behind the day cabin, at the very stern of the ship, were the captain's personal quarters. On the starboard side, against the bulkhead, Richard noted an empty alcove that would serve as the captain's dining area. Across on the larboard side was a second alcove containing a free-swinging bunk attached to the deckhead by four sturdy ropes, a simple bureau, and a sea chest. Neither alcove had a door, though hard canvas partitions erected along the outer sides clearly defined the two spaces. No partitions, as yet, separated the day cabin from the captain's personal quarters aft or the gun deck forward. Compared with his little cuddy on
Elizabeth,
however, the space
Constellation
reserved for her captain was a veritable ballroom.

At Truxtun's invitation, Richard sat down in one of the chairs. Truxtun sat down across from him and rested his clasped hands on the table. Into the silence that ensued Richard interjected, “On the cruise south, Captain, I had occasion to read your book on naval strategy and tactics. I bought it from a Boston bookseller.”

“Just so? How did you find it?”

“Very much like the treatises written by Rodney and Hood,” Richard enthused, referring to two of England's greatest naval heroes. “And, of course, those by Admiral Nelson.” He caught himself when Truxtun gave him what Richard interpreted as a sardonic smile, adding somewhat sheepishly, “I wasn't trying to be self-serving in saying that, Captain.”

“I didn't think you were, Mr. Cutler. I am flattered by the comparisons and impressed by the quality of your reading. But what truly delights me no end is the knowledge that I have now sold at least one copy of my latest book. That makes one copy more than of my first book, on wind currents.”

They chuckled comfortably together before Truxtun rose. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Cutler, while I see to our refreshment.”

Truxtun walked over to the cedar cabinet and poured out two glasses of claret from a cut-glass decanter. He handed one to Richard and resumed his seat across the table from him.

“To book sales,” he said, raising his glass. “And confusion to our enemies.” He downed a swig, sighed contentedly, and leaned back, crossing his right leg over his left. Moments ticked by as each man silently took the measure of the other. Richard absorbed the pewter-gray eyes that served as focal points of a broad, clean-shaven, middle-aged face; the broad nose, thin lips, and short neck. Truxtun's thinning, tawny hair was pulled straight back in a tightly bound queue. Richard found himself wondering if this seemingly hard-bitten sea officer ever indulged himself with a sniff of powdered tobacco or donned a perfumed wig. Only when forced to by social convention, he conjectured.

Truxtun broke the silence. “As you can see, Mr. Cutler,” he said offhandedly, “I am a simple man with simple tastes. Although I must say that the simplicity of
these
surroundings puts even me on edge. Circumstances will change once my personal stores arrive from Perth Amboy. Though I doubt these accommodations will ever equal those of your brother-in-law . . . Captain Jeremy Hardcastle, isn't it? Attached to the Mediterranean Squadron?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Hardcastle is my wife's oldest brother. I am pleased to report that her other brother, Hugh, was recently promoted to the rank of post captain. He remains attached to the Windward Squadron in Barbados.”

“So I understand. Your wife had a third brother, did she not? One serving as midshipman in
Serapis
at the same time you were serving as acting third lieutenant in
Bonhomme Richard
?”

Richard lowered his eyes to his glass. “That is correct, sir. His name was James—his friends called him Jamie. I was honored to be counted among those friends.” He said nothing more, surprised by Truxtun's knowledge of his wife's family and wondering what other details of that bitter North Sea naval engagement he might know. The respectful silence that ensued suggested that Truxtun knew, at least, that Midshipman
James Makepeace Hardcastle had died in Richard's arms on
Serapis
' weather deck as the battle reached its bloody conclusion.

“Well,” the captain said at length, “I am honored to be in the presence of such naval accomplishments.”

Richard raised his eyes. “What accomplishments are you referring to, Captain?”

Truxtun smiled. “Come now, Mr. Cutler. You're being a tad modest, aren't you? Your conduct in that battle was well documented in the British and American presses. Not to mention your tête-à-tête with those two Arab xebecs in the Mediterranean.”

The sea battle waged nine years ago, after Richard had left Algiers having failed to secure the release of
Eagle'
s crew, had been covered rather extensively in the presses. The dey of Algiers had refused the proffered ransom, all of it Cutler family money backed by a government promissory note executed by Alexander Hamilton to someday repay all funds expended, Congress at the time having insufficient resources of its own. In the royal court of Algiers, Richard had found himself enmeshed in a web of intrigue and duplicity. The morning after he departed, two well-armed xebecs attacked his schooner, hoping to take both
Falcon
and the $60,000 of unpaid ransom money stored in her hold.
Falcon
, though, was armed and expecting the attack. Her 6-pounder guns and an odd type of ordnance that had served the roving buccaneer Edward Teach with lethal efficiency in an earlier age of high-seas piracy were more than enough to fight off the two attackers. The battle ended with the obliteration of both xebecs and with
Falcon
limping north toward the French naval hospital in Toulon.

“That must have been one hell of a fight,” Truxtun commented.

Richard shrugged and then allowed himself a smile. “We would not have prevailed were it not for those fire-arrows, sir. They caught the Arabs completely by surprise.”

“Yes, I daresay. Whose idea was it to employ that particular type of ordnance?”

“Richard Dale's, sir. He and I were prisoners in England during the war. We later served together in
Bonhomme Richard
and have remained friends ever since. I have no idea where he found those fire-arrows, but I owe my life and the lives of many of my crew to the fact that he did.”

“I know Mr. Dale. He's a fine naval officer. Are you aware that he was recently awarded command of
Ganges
?” He was referring to a former merchant vessel refitted as a man-of-war carrying twenty-six 9-pounder guns. “She is the first vessel of the United States Navy to
put to sea. Captain Dale's orders are to chase down French privateers operating off our coast. Our quarry, when finally we sail, will be French frigates and privateers operating in the Caribbean.”

Richard noted the word “our.” “I read about Mr. Dale's appointment. It is well earned.” He took a sip of claret, investing a moment to enjoy its smooth texture while mulling over Truxtun's last statement. “Might I assume from what you just said, Captain, that you believe war with France is inevitable? That the envoys dispatched by President Adams will fail in their mission? You seem quite certain that
Constellation
will be deployed in the Indies.”

Truxtun's reply was quick and emphatic. “I do believe they will fail, Mr. Cutler, though it gives me no pleasure to say it. What's more, I'd wager good money that President Adams was convinced they would fail even before he sent them. His political foes clamor for peace, so Mr. Adams agreed to give peace one final try. Oh, I think his intent is sincere enough. He has no more desire for war or any sort of foreign entanglement than did President Washington. But to avoid
this
entanglement, the French must also desire peace. And that they do not. If they did, why would they increase their attacks on our ships on the very eve of this mission?”

“To gain an upper hand in negotiations?” Richard volunteered. He was thinking to himself that Truxtun's opinions on the odds of war with France coincided with those of his father and General Lincoln.

Truxtun grunted. “What negotiations are you referring to? What terms? We're either at war with France or we're not.
Those
are the terms.
That's
the issue. There's no territory to claim or divide up, no advantage to negotiate. No, France does not want peace. Not with us or with England. The British have captured most of France's islands in the Caribbean—Tobago, Martinique, and Saint Lucia among them. They even took Guadeloupe, and had they been able to hold
that
island, the French would have been finished in the Indies. But the French threw everything they had at Guadeloupe to get it back. You may recall that in'94 the National Directory freed all slaves in French colonies. A French commissioner in Guadeloupe named Sonthonax carried out the order, and now he and a petty tyrant named Hugues are stirring up slave rebellions on British-held islands. You were recently on Barbados. Didn't your brother-in-law tell you any of this?”