Brig of War, page 37
It would be useful to know their opponents’ force. Favian lowered the glass and handed it to Phillip Stanhope.
“Mr. Stanhope, I’ll thank you to keep your glass fixed on the enemy and report anything of interest. If you get the chance I want you to count their gun ports.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mr. Bean, we’ll be wearing shortly. I’d trouble you to send men to the braces.”
“Aye, Captain.”
The brig’s band played “Liberty Tree” as the men took their stations. “Manned and ready, sir,” Bean reported.
“Commence, Mr. Bean.”
“Rise tacks and sheets! Wear-oh!”
The two helmsmen put up the tiller, and Experiment turned from the wind, wallowing clumsily in the trough of a wave before allowing her rudder, the doused fore-and-aft mainsail, and the squared-in yards to turn her bow downwind. Favian took out his pocket watch, as he had on United State’s quarterdeck during the Macedonian fight, experiencing a rush of familiarity.
“Shift the heads’l sheets. Set the mains’l. Set the forecourse.”
Foam splattered over Experiment’s billet head as she came onto her new tack. She and the other brig were on opposite tacks; Favian would sooner or later get a glimpse of those gun ports, unless she tacked very soon. Experiment’s own sides were black on black, without the stripe that usually picked out a warship’s port; Favian would very soon have the advantage of knowing his enemy’s force, while keeping from the enemy the knowledge of his own.
“She’s clewing up her fores’l, sir!” Stanhope reported, excited. “She’s going to wear!”
“Very good, Mr. Stanhope. Count those gun ports when she shows us her broadside.”
“Aye aye, sir. She’s doused her mains’l! Her helm’s up!”
The other captain was duplicating Experiment’s movements, trying to keep close, forcing an engagement. Favian made note of the time on his pocket watch. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stanhope’s lips moving as he counted the black squares on the enemy brig’s yellow stripe.
“Seven this side, sir!”
“Thank you, Stanhope.” Seven this side; she was a fourteen-gun brig, the same rating as Experiment. Of course, there might be a couple more guns crammed into the bridle ports, as Experiment had, making a total of sixteen; that would make it a perfectly balanced fight, at least as regards armament. Crew was another matter: Favian suspected that Experiment carried more men, and though the other brig’s maneuvers were smartly done, Favian thought his own men were just that much smarter.
But still they were the same force, on the same sea. None of the sea duels thus far had been between vessels of equal force: United States had considerably outgunned Macedonian, and almost certainly would have won that battle in any case, even if Decatur hadn’t been brilliant and Carden stupid; Constitution had borne the same preponderance of armament in its fights against Guerrière and Java. The British public, stunned by the defeats, had no doubt taken comfort in the fact that the odds had been against them.
But the British could take no such comfort here. The fight would be a classic battle of equals— slow, over-gunned, unhandy equals, to be sure, but equals nevertheless. No excuses for either side; the fight would be quoted for generations in texts on war at sea. Favian felt a thrill running through him, as the professional in him realized the consequences: his name and reputation made for certain, promotion guaranteed, assignment to a newer and better vessel, prize money, the thanks of the Secretary, the President, and Congress. Perhaps, another part of him added, the hand of Emma Greenhow as well.
All this if he survived. And if he did not, there would be another kind of immortality as compensation. There was always a special pathos, a special place in Clio’s heart, for those captains who died at the moment of victory. Nelson had made himself a legend by dying at Trafalgar, and no doubt knew it even as he received Hardy’s kiss; Wolfe had achieved immortality by his death at Quebec.
“She’s braced up on the larboard tack, sir,” Stanhope reported. Favian looked at his watch; the other’s crew seemed up to the mark. There was perhaps a hair’s breadth of difference; the British crew’s progressive bracing had seemed just a little tardy, and the topgallant yards had perhaps gotten ahead of the rest, but at this distance it was a little hard to be certain. There was equality in sail handling, or as near as made no matter.
“Good,” Favian said. “We’ll go about, just to see what the British do. Hands to the braces!” He walked forward to stand by the carré navale, plotting the course of Experiment after her new maneuver.
They tacked, flawlessly. There was a risk in tacking so near to the enemy: They could have ended in irons, head to wind and drifting backward in disorder. But Favian had confidence in the hands’ seamanship by now, and it was justified. Shortly afterward the enemy tacked as well, proclaiming plainly that what American seamen could do, the British seamen could do as well. Favian timed the move; they’d done it smartly enough. There was nothing more to be learned. It was time to begin the fight.
Favian assembled the hands first, and made the speech they expected of him. There were references to free trade and sailors’ rights, the Liberty Tree, European tyranny, impressment, giving John Bull his just deserts, John Paul Jones, and the immortal trio of Hull, Decatur, and Bainbridge. And though it was a standard speech, given on any United States vessel on such an occasion, it was not insincere; Favian felt the words as he spoke them, knew their essential truth and the larger truths behind them. Old Benjamin Franklin, at the close of the Revolution, had spoken to the effect that the war had been won, but the War of Independence remained to be fought. It was being fought now: The entire continent of America, from Canada to Chile, was embroiled in a contest to throw off the enshackling weight of old Europe, and Experiment had her part to play. Not that one little brig more or less would make a major difference to either side; but Experiment’s defeat of, or loss to a naval vessel of equal force would stand as a symbol to both continents of what the young republic was capable.
The brig rang with cheers at the conclusion of Favian’s speech, and Favian raised the biggest fifteen-striped battle flag Experiment possessed to the peak, another gridiron flag at the fore; and then allowed himself the indulgence of raising the Markham viper banner at the main, the personal pennant of his clan. Again he sensed the long, dim line of Markhams past and present: mad Adaiah; Malachi with his hard, unforgiving eyes, glittering with a ferocious hate of England; Jehu and his gentle strength; fierce Josiah, uncompromising in his faith. He sensed approval in their faces, and the joy of battle in their ghostly hearts.
And then they were gone, and Favian stood alone on his quarterdeck, hearing the wind keen through the rigging, feeling spray on his face, the band rattling with fife and drum in the background. “Send the band to their stations,” he said. “Starboard your helm. We’re bearing down on them.”
The hands went mad, cheering for what seemed hours, hats flung aloft to be caught by the wind and carried into the waiting wake. The helm went up, and the brig pitched as the waves came from its starboard quarter. The officers established control and sent the hands to the waiting guns, strapping on their boarding helmets, looking like a line of ferocious, plumed animals as they bent over their pieces.
The British, their own flags raised to the wind, waited for them, no doubt prepared in their own fashion.
CHAPTER 17.
Favian came cautiously down the wind, on a converging course that would bring them together without any great haste, still studying his opponent. The long viper banner snapped overhead. The other brig shortened sail down to topsails and fore-topgallant, and Favian followed suit, taking in the royals, leaving both topgallants up and the fore-course set, giving him the speed he needed on the approach.
The brigs came slowly together. Eight hundred yards apart: easy range for one of United States’s twenty-four-pound long guns, but extreme, really hopeless range for anything the brigs carried, except for their bow chasers, which did not bear. Favian felt Experiment roll, heard the rigging keen with ghostly voices. His Portsmouth presentation sword rattled at his side. The enemy’s flags were bright specks on the sea and sky.
“Steer nor’east by north,” he told the helmsman. The angle of approach steepened: Both brigs were heading for an imaginary speck of ocean in front of them, but the British brig would reach it first. Experiment could try to pass astern of the enemy, firing a full broadside through the British stern windows, a raking volley that would send eighteen-pound shot rocketing the length of the enemy brig, doing untold damage. Favian wasn’t going to try that particular maneuver, since the enemy probably had a counterstrategy prepared, but he didn’t mind them thinking that he might. Their preparing to counter an obvious tactic that he wasn’t going to use might blind them to his real plans...
The enemy brig fell off the wind slightly, as if ready to wear suddenly to prevent being raked, and Favian smiled. Very good. Favian could feel blood racing through his body; he was oddly conscious of the way his knees and hips compensated for Experiment’s roll and pitch, the unaccustomed weight of the boarding helmet on his head.
“Larboard side, triple-shot the first broadside,” he ordered. “Even guns with doubleshot and grape, odd guns with shot, grape, and canister. Doubleshot after the first round— even guns with roundshot and grape, odd guns with roundshot and canister. Don’t run ’em out yet.” No sense in letting the enemy know which broadside he intended to fire first.
The enemy brig crossed the imaginary spot of water first. Favian could see its dark form beneath the fore-course. “Put your helm down,” he ordered. “Furl the main-t’gallant.”
Experiment came into the wind, riding parallel and astern of the other brig, overhauling slowly. “Larboard broadside, run out! Number one gun, don’t fire till you pass the enemy’s mainmast!”
Favian took a glass and ran to the lee rail, leaning out past the main shrouds, his glass focused on the enemy for one last detailed look. The brig was trimmed well to the wind, clean and newly painted. Well cared for. There were silhouettes on her quarterdeck, men in cocked hats: officers, among them Favian’s opposite. He focused his glass a little lower, picking out the golden letters that spoke his enemy’s name: Teaser. Favian smiled and returned the glass to the rack. Teaser versus Experiment, 3 August 1813. A date for the history books.
Hands came down the shrouds after furling the main-topgallant. Experiment was still overhauling. Not too fast, or Teaser’s captain might guess Favian’s plan.
“Clew up the forecourse!” Favian bawled. Men ran to the tacks and clewlines.
Bean’s voice came clearly over the deck. “Ease the fore-course tacks and sheets. Haul away on the clew garnets. Belay. Haul away on the buntlines and sheets. Belay.” The forecourse spilled wind and came smoothly up to the yard, without any dead men spoiling the neat doused sail. It could be set again, as swiftly as it had been clewed up, providing Experiment with added speed when it was needed.
Favian glanced aloft, seeing the marines in their blue coats manning the fighting tops, their rifles ready, six men in each top. One of them, the best shot, was assigned to fire accurately down into the enemy while the others loaded for him, thus keeping up a swift and accurate fire. Although Favian hadn’t ordered it— it hadn’t seemed quite the gentlemanly sort of order to give— the marines would no doubt make the British officers their special targets. No doubt Teaser’s marines would act similarly toward Experiment’s officers; Favian would have to remember to keep moving, spoiling their aim.
Experiment slowed, with her forecourse clewed, but it was still overhauling. Teaser bobbed just twenty yards ahead. Favian reached for his pocket watch and brought it out. “Ten fifty-seven, action commences,” he said, and was surprised to find his voice trembling. With excitement, he thought, not with fear. Not with fear.
Experiment’s jibboom crept up on Teaser’s quarter, thirty yards to leeward. “Starboard gun crews, lie down on the deck!” Favian ordered. The gun crews of the unengaged side looked at Favian questioningly, then lowered themselves to the deck. There was a resistance there, a bravado; it was clear they didn’t like the idea of lying down in the presence of the enemy, even if it would be far safer for them.
Experiment’s billet head drew level with Teaser’s aftermost gunport. Favian realized that in a moment the guns would be thundering, and his orders, thus far transmitted on the little brig without even raising his voice, might go unheard; he took up a speaking trumpet and tried to steel himself for that first broadside. It would be awesome when it came, the only broadside that could be aimed properly, and fired without the target being obscured by smoke. For a second Favian flirted with the possibility of lying down himself. There was no overriding reason why he should not; his orders had been given and would not change; for some time he would be superfluous. But the men on the engaged larboard side had to stand and take the enemy’s fire squarely; they would not appreciate having their captain hide while they were obliged to endure the storm of Teaser’s fire.
No, Favian thought, he would stand and make a target of himself.
A shot rang out, and Favian jumped. It was only a marine in Experiment’s foretop chancing his luck; for a moment he’d thought one or the other brig’s main weaponry had fired prematurely. No, all was well. Experiment’s number one carronade had drawn even with Teaser’s aftermost gun port, and the two gun crews stared with mixed fear and hatred into one another’s eyes, obedient to the command to wait. The marine marksman fired again, and Favian saw sudden movement on the enemy quarterdeck as enemy officers began to pace rapidly...
Favian saw the men of the number two carronade stiffen, and knew they were staring right into an eighteen-pound muzzle, and eternity. The marine fired again, and several men on the carronade jumped. Favian would have to credit that marine with a good grasp of tactics; his harassing fire would be making the British nervous, more likely to fire prematurely. The marksman in the maintop fired seconds after his fellow, and from then on there was a steady crackle from the tops. It was impossible to tell how effective the marines were— not, at least, until the battle was over and the winners could compare notes with the losers— but Favian hoped that at least they were serving to distract the enemy captain from his meditations.
The numbers three and four carronade crews were standing stiff now, staring into the British guns, their opposite numbers. Favian could hear a steady murmur of orders from Hibbert and Midshipman Dudley: “Steady, boys, steady. Not yet. Steady, boys. Wait for it...”
Puffs of smoke from amidships on Teaser, and the humming of bullets through the air. The enemy redcoats were replying. It was not usually British practice to station marines in the tops. They considered there was too great a danger of the muskets setting fire to the sails, and a lack of accuracy from atop the swaying lower mast, so they lined their lobsterbacks on the deck and let them volley over the bulwarks. Favian suspected the American tactic was more effective. He saw Hibbert suddenly start moving, jerkily, as if he’d felt the twitter of a musket ball near his ear, still murmuring his litany of “Steady, boys, steady...”
Any second now. The number two carronade was drawing even with Teaser’s mainmast. Favian was aware that the litany had abruptly changed. “Wait for the next sea to pass under us,” Hibbert said. “Fire as we ride the crest.” Preble’s old drill for accurate fire: wait until the wave lifts you, then wait a little longer, until just before you begin to slide into the trough. Then, as your vessel hangs for a moment on the edge of the crest, there is a moment of perfect steadiness, and a chance for planting your guns’ shot where they’re aimed.
“Wait, wait,” Hibbert said. The surge lifted Experiment, the brig rolling, wind whistling through the rigging. “First section, ready... fire!” Number one and two carronades spat smoke, roaring back on their slides. Most of the British guns returned the fire instantly from sheer reflex... bad fire discipline... and Favian saw smoke and flame belch from Teaser’s side as the air filled with the eerie wail of canister. Favian saw men going down, bits of the bulwark dissolving into humming clouds of splinters. “Second section, ready... !” Hibbert was shouting over crackling musketry. No need to be canny about firing the middle three carronades; the enemy’s firing on reflex had assured the Americans that they would be firing at unloaded guns and could take their time.
Favian had been outside of the arc of the enemy’s fire, his position on the quarterdeck not yet even with an enemy gun port, a perfect observer. The British gunfire, triggered automatically in response to the first carronade section’s opening fire, had not been well aimed, and it had almost all gone high; there were pockmarks in the topsails, and a few severed stays had coiled down to the deck, but the casualties and real harm were small.
Lovely. Let them keep firing like that.
“Second section, fire!” Hibbert bawled. The three blue guns bellowed, leaping back on their slides, their crews jumping instantly to reload. The sheet-lead cartridges that had enabled United States to so spectacularly increase its rate of fire in the fight with Macedonian had not yet been issued for the United States eighteen-pound carronade; Experiment was using the old-fashioned felt cartridges, and the carronades needed to be sponged and wormed before being reloaded.
A British carronade fired, one of those forward that had not been able to bear on Experiment when the opening shots were fired. This was better aimed; Favian saw a section of hammock nettings tear open, spilling their contents, and men from the number one carronade crew suddenly tumbled to the deck, staining the planks red. “Third section, ready...” Favian said, watching Teaser’s stern sliding closer. “Train your carronades all the way forrard.”
“First section, fire!” Hibbert bellowed, and the guns responded. Favian saw that the brigs were parting slightly, and looked at the dog vanes, then at the two helmsmen. They had allowed their helm to go down a bit, nervously steering Experiment slightly away from the enemy.
