The Seekers (43 page)

He watched Captain Hull bend over the fallen Morris. The first lieutenant grimaced, took Hull’s hand, struggled to his feet. The front of Morris’ coat was a red ruin. Bone-pale, he pressed his hands against his wound. Slimy red coils showed between his fingers—

Jared gagged. Morris’ stomach had been torn open. Yet he was up and moving, literally holding his own entrails.

Hull spun away, sword drawn, as if he intended to lead the boarders personally. Morris reached for the captain’s shoulder with one gory hand. Hull whirled, in a fury until he saw who had taken hold of him.

Morris ripped one epaulette from Hull’s uniform, then the other.

“Now—” he gasped. “Now you won’t make such a prize target—”

Hull understood, clapped a hand on his lieutenant’s arm. Both men disappeared as heavy clouds of smoke rolled across the stern.

The din of rifle and pistol fire had become continuous. Jared and Prouty pushed and shoved, but a crowd of men, uncertain as to their orders, prevented forward movement. Jared’s left foot slipped. He didn’t dare look down. The deck was slick with blood. Men lay everywhere, wounded or dead—

Jared’s ears began to ring. All the blood started him trembling violently.

Prouty pushed him. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Go to the left! Around the wheel! These simpletons may want to stand here, but I want to get aboard
Guerriere!
”

Jared swayed, let Prouty circle away from him, past the wheel on the starboard side. The crowd was beginning to break up, move toward the stern. Jared stumbled after his friend—and came to a halt again a few steps aft of the wheel.

A dead seaman lay at his feet, blouse pierced by three balls. Jared was so mesmerized by the sight of the man’s bloodied torso, he completely forgot his own danger—until another British ball chewed the deck a yard to the right.

Flying splinters stung his cheeks and throat, jolting him back to reality. The tumult of confused voices and small arms fire—suddenly blending with another long, crunching noise—made his head throb.

Aboard
Guerriere,
the wails and groans of the wounded were unbelievably loud, a chorus of condemned men howling in hell. Jared’s eyes stung; the smoke was thick again. He could hardly see anyone.

To larboard, the smoke parted slightly. Jared lurched in that direction, saw another sailor spin around and fall. The grinding noise grew louder—the sound of the two frigates tearing apart, driven off from each other by the heavy waves.

Rigging broke. Wood snapped. Jared stumbled into lines tumbling from overhead.
Guerriere
separated just as the Americans were massing at her bowsprit, finally organized to board.

Watching from a good twenty feet away, Jared spied Oliver Prouty at the fringe of the boarding party. The Charleston boy was scowling and flourishing his cutlass. He dropped to his knees with a stunned look as a chance shot from one of
Guerriere
’s two remaining tops blew away the back of his head.

“Ollie!”
Jared screamed, slipping and sliding aft and to larboard at the same time. In a second, more smoke hid the boarders.

A hand from the smoke caught his arm.

“Let go, goddamn y—”

The yell died in his throat. Standing beside one of the aft guns, Sixth Lieutenant Stovall glared at him. In his other hand Stovall held a navy pistol.

Writhing, Jared tried to free himself from the lieutenant’s grip. He saw the round, black eye of the barrel pointed at his forehead. And behind it, Stovall’s crazed smile. “Everyone will think it was a British ball, won’t they, Mr. Kent?”

He shoved Jared backwards, away from the rail.

“Won’t they?”

Jared swung his cutlass as Stovall cocked the pistol. The lieutenant dodged the downward sweep of the blade. It struck something that vibrated. Jared heard the creak of carriage wheels—

Its right breeching rope severed by Jared’s cut, the cannon by which Stovall had been standing swung away from the rail. The left breeching rope snapped; the cannon was loose—

Stovall saw it coming, rolling slowly as the left side of the frigate lifted. Stovall released Jared’s arm. Both leaped back—but not before Jared swung his cutlass a second time.

The tip barely nicked Stovall’s jaw. Then the runaway cannon rumbled between them, the wheels narrowly missing Jared’s bare feet.

Stovall slapped a hand against his nicked chin as the deck tilted even more sharply. He stumbled to starboard, lost his footing, dropped his pistol, flailed wildly with both hands, seeking something to check his fall.

His hands closed on the muzzle of the cannon. He screamed.

A foul odor mingled with the reek of powder. The rest happened incredibly fast.

Already on his knees, Stovall pitched forward. As his hands slipped off the metal, the right side of his face slammed against the breech below the firing pan. His second, piercing shriek testified to the searing heat. The cannon slid out from under him and rolled on to come to a jolting stop against the far rail.

In the smoke, men were still swarming aft on both sides of Jared. Several had leaped clear of the runaway cannon, but not a one paid any attention to the fallen lieutenant midway between the two rails; he was just another floundering casualty.

Screaming again, Stovall writhed on his back, both hands clutching his right cheek. All at once a stain spread at his crotch.

He fainted. His hands fell to his sides. Jared saw reddened facial tissue. The odor of burned flesh was overpowering—

Guerriere
’s batteries roared.
Constitution
shivered as round shot burst the rear wall of Captain Hull’s great cabin. In a moment, flames licked upward over the stern. A fire crew assembled, disappeared in the gray billows—

The two frigates had separated completely. Jared snatched up Stovall’s pistol, discharged it at the barely visible bow of the other ship. As far as he could see, he hit nothing. No wonder. His hand was trembling.

In despair, he threw the pistol away. He turned toward the bow, walking as best he could on the treacherous deck.
I should go back,
he thought.
Go back and make certain Stovall’s dead
—

He couldn’t. He was too weak from the shock of what had just happened. Too overcome with sickness from the sight of bleeding men. He let the cutlass drop from his other hand. He fell against the rail as the opposite side of the ship rose. He seized the rail, thrust his head over, violently sick—

When he raised his head, he saw
Guerriere
astern—and blinked in disbelief. Not one of her three masts remained.

Her deck was a litter of broken wood, ripped sail, tangled cordage. On the quarterdeck, her captain was being supported by two of his officers. Even at this distance, Jared clearly saw the large, dark stain on the back of the captain’s uniform.

“She’s done, by heaven!”

Hearing Hull shout somewhere in the smoke, men all over the ship began to cheer. But not Jared. He remembered Stovall. And Oliver Prouty—

Ollie was dead.
Dead.
How could that be?

Tears came to his eyes.

They were gone a few moments later when he stumbled back to the spot where Stovall had fallen.

The ship’s sixth lieutenant was nowhere to be seen.

In the lowering light, the two frigates continued to roll in the heavy sea, guns silent.
Constitution
was damaged but
Guerriere
was totally out of action. As the smoke gradually cleared, a tatter of white became visible on the enemy quarterdeck.

An officer strode to Isaac Hull’s side. The little captain was grimy now. During the engagement his other trouser leg had split.

The officer called Hull’s attention to the wigwagging white square. “I believe she’s asking quarter, Captain.”

“Well she might. There’s not a stick left standing for showing a flag—white or any other kind. What the devil is that man waving, Lieutenant Read?”

“As nearly as I can make out, sir, a tablecloth.”

Isaac Hull’s face looked as merry as Jared had ever seen it. “Take a boat. Find out whether she has actually struck.”

“I’m sure she has, sir. But I’ll go at once—” Hull caught him as he left. “Read—”

“Sir?”

“See to Jimmy Dacres. I watched him take a ball in the back when she fouled us.” The captain was no longer smiling.

Shortly after seven o’clock, a returning boat brought
Guerriere
’s captain alongside. Hull himself went to the ladder as men assisted Dacres up to the victor’s deck.

Near the top of the ladder, Dacres paled visibly. Jared saw it from his place at the rail. He was crowded among men and boys eager for the sight of a British captain surrendering to one of the Americans his admiralty scorned. But all Jared could think of was Stovall, and the way he’d botched his one chance to put an end to the threat Stovall represented—

Captain Hull put on his half-moon hat, stepped to the head of the ladder. “Dacres, give me your hand. I know you’re hurt.”

James Dacres replied with an oath. Hull backed away, waiting until the wounded skipper negotiated the rail.

Dacres approached Hull with an unsteady step. Blood stained his coat front and back. He looked ready to faint. Yet he managed to give his opponent a salute.

“My compliments, Captain Hull.” He groped downward, grudging admiration and bitterness mingling in his voice. “You’ve earned my sword—”

Suddenly Dacres’ head jerked up. Hull had stayed the hand struggling to unfasten the blade.

“No, Jimmy. I won’t take a sword from one who knows how to use it so well. I will, however, trouble you for your hat.”

Dacres almost smiled. But the cries of anguish still drifting across the chop from the foundering
Guerriere
prevented that. Dacres took off his half-moon hat, handed it to Hull. The American captain slipped the hat beneath one arm.

“Come to my cabin, Jimmy. I’m told they’ve put out the fire. We’ll get our surgeon to dig out that ball you took.”

“Not until my wounded are looked after.”

“Of course. I’ll see they’re brought aboard at once.” He took Dacres’ elbow.

“Isaac, let me ask you a question. What have you got for men in the tops?”

“My marines? Only a parcel of green bushwackers.”

“Backwoodsmen?”

“According to your admirals.”

Dacres caught the irony, shook his head. “You outsailed me. You outgunned me. Why the hell you weren’t hulled as I was—”

“Live oak,” Hull interrupted. “Your architects hold it in contempt, remember?”

Dacres flushed. “Be that as it may, one battle isn’t the war.”

As Hull led him to a ladderway, the British captain suddenly glanced back at his ship. “You can’t put a prize crew aboard her, can you, Isaac?”

“I doubt it. She’s too badly riddled.” Hull pointed. “With the sea so heavy, she’s shipping water through her gun ports. I’ll have to blow her up tomorrow.”

Captain Dacres looked as grieved as if he’d lost a relative, Jared thought.

“One favor, then.”

“It’s yours.”

“In my cabin there’s a Bible. Given me years ago by my mother. I’ve carried it ever since I first went to sea.”

“I’ll see it’s recovered and restored to you,” Hull said, handing Dacres into the care of two seamen who helped him down the ladder.

Before Hull followed, he moved briefly among the men standing nearest to him. He shook a hand here, murmured a word of praise there. He never reached Jared. A shout summoned him to the surgeon’s quarters, where Lieutenant Morris was being attended. Hull waddled to the ladderway and vanished, torn pants first, stained coat sans epaulettes next, round face last of all.

God, Jared admired the man’s skill and courage. As innocent-looking as a rustic, Hull had been masterful during the engagement. If there were a few more captains like him, the outlook for America might not be as gloomy as many of her citizens believed—

By this time Jared had regained a measure of calm. He started asking questions, and discovered Sixth Lieutenant Stovall had been taken to the surgery. The news reinforced his sense of having failed at the critical moment, and kept him from sharing the festive mood that accompanied the process of cleaning up the frigate. He didn’t drink the extra ration of grog ordered for all hands. And he slept poorly.

No one hung up a hammock in the place Ollie Prouty had occupied only twenty-four hours ago.

On August thirtieth,
Constitution
dropped anchor a mile and a half southeast of the Boston light.

A few hours later, she moved to Nantasket Roads. She sent a boat ashore with news of her stunning success—and with a request that facilities be readied for the prisoners and wounded from
Guerriere,
whose ruined hull had been torched and sunk at sea.

The party returning from shore brought a curious report. Despite New England’s hatred of the war, most of the city had paradoxically gone wild with joy at word of the victory.

Constitution
’s triumph offset discouraging news from the west: in mid-August, General William Hull had surrendered Detroit to General Isaac Brock without firing so much as one shot. The officer in charge of the landing party said people were already clamoring for General Hull’s court-martial. Captain Hull made no mention of the fact that the general was his uncle. Jared had to learn it from a seaman.

In the ten days since the engagement, everyone had taken to calling the frigate by a new nickname—Old Ironsides. A new pride had kept the crew working cheerfully at their duties. The atmosphere had somewhat restored Jared’s spirits, too. He slowly forgot the grim sea burial of the dead from both sides—fourteen Americans and seventy-nine British.

He took added encouragement from what he learned from boys who worked for the surgeon’s mates. Yes, Lieutenant Stovall was alive. But the pain of his injury kept him unconscious most of the time. He had suffered severe facial burns in an accidental fall against a hot cannon.

“You have anything to do with that?” asked one of the boys with whom Jared talked.

“Would I tell you if I did?”