Brig of War, page 8
But there was little time to wonder about the congressman’s thoughts and motivations; the banquet itself demanded attention. A certain amount of regard had to be given to the speeches, so that the correct replies could be framed. There were a lot of toasts, and even Favian, who was used to this kind of thing on shipboard, began to feel his head swimming. Newport was on the brink of relieved hysteria. New England had opposed the war, knowing it would be New England ships captured by the enemy, New England commerce wrecked, and New England that would, if all miscarried, be invaded through Canada. New Englanders knew that their chief hope of relief from these mischiefs— the Navy— had been gutted by the Jefferson administration, over all their objections. None of these facts led to sanguine expectations, and at first the worst had come to pass. Detroit had surrendered, along with an American army, through sheer cowardice on the part of its commander. Fort Dearborn had been taken, and every man of the garrison killed and scalped by Tecumseh’s Indians. One American force was cut to ribbons on the Niagara while another American force stood by and watched, refusing to aid the comrades who were dying in plain sight.
And then a trickle of good news had begun to appear. Constitution had beaten and sunk the Guerrière,and Wasp had captured the Frolic, though the American sloop had itself been taken by the British shortly thereafter. Now United States had captured Macedonian and actually sailed her into an American port, to be added to the American forces. New England could actually look out its windows and see victory swinging from its cable, to and fro with the tide, the gridiron flag floating over the White Ensign in mute proclamation of the triumph. Decatur’s grasp of human nature had once again proven sound; he had known that a captured British frigate the population could actually see would be worth three enemy warships destroyed after capture— and of course it would be of value to the Navy after it had been refitted and given an American crew.
It seemed as if all New England had crammed itself into the banquet hall. There was an additional local reason for the scope of the enthusiasm, it seemed: The two frigates had appeared, by sheer chance, on the anniversary of Newport’s capture by the British in 1776. The formal banquet ended, and unrestrained celebration began. Favian found himself thankful to be separated from the congressman, but discovered to his dismay that he had been made prize to an elderly merchantman with four marriageable daughters, all of whom appeared properly awed by his professional accomplishments, and who seemed to require a gunshot-by-gunshot description of his career from Tripoli to the present. Decatur at last rescued him from this reluctant exercise of egotism, and took him briefly aside.
“I’m going to take Macedonian down the coast to New York,” he said. “The British will be reading of our appearance in New England newspapers ere long, and I want to get the prize out before they blockade us.”
“Aye, sir.” Favian pictured what a sensation Macedonian would make, decked out and sailing past Hell Gate to the great city.
“We’ll stay here to put off the British crew and take on supplies. Perhaps give her a proper mizzenmast.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I’m sending you and Hamilton ahead by pilot boat to New York. You’ll be leaving on the afternoon tide tomorrow. I’ll need you to carry my official dispatches to Washington City, along with Macedonian’s flag.”
“But the Macedonian... !”
“Nicholson can do it. In New York you’ll see my prize agents, Wheeler and Tazewell, who will give you an advance for the trip.”
Favian was too stunned to stammer out an assent. Going with dispatches from New York to Washington would mean riding overland over miserable December roads, and the importance of the dispatches would mean haste. The normal passage by sea would be in danger of interdiction by British ships, which were blockading most American ports from Sandy Hook south.
“I’m going to make ’em notice you, Favian,” Decatur said. “Secretary Hamilton will wish to promote his son, and he won’t be able to do it without promoting you as well.”
“Th-thank you, sir,” Favian said.
“When you reach New York, I want you to send back two damn good Hell Gate pilots. Tell them to meet us in New London. We’ll be sailing there in a few days.”
The celebration reeled on. The next day, Favian could remember the city of Newport running out of wine and offering less expensive substitutes; someone pressed a cup of pure undiluted whiskey into his hand, and afterward Favian could remember little, his memories like drops of foam thrown up by a ship’s tossing stem, fine little jewels with nothing between them. There was the time Favian stepped outside for a breath of crisp winter air and discovered the congressman vomiting noisily in an alley. He remembered also receiving a note, delivered by a messenger who explained he was acting for a lady, a woman he pointed out— her face was swathed in a veil, but her form was inviting, though a little buxom for current fashion. Favian read the note to discover it contained an offer of marriage.
While recovering from his surprise at this unexpected proposal, he found his elbow tugged by an old white-haired shellback, who, it turned out, had once been a crewman on the Cossack privateer under Favian’s uncle Malachi; and Favian spent a fascinating half hour listening to the old man’s fund of anecdotes— pity now Favian could remember so few of them. But he recalled a firsthand account of the wreck of the British frigate Melampe, the capture of the Royal George, and an inexhaustible series of stories concerning Malachi’s incredible seamanship: how he would navigate Cossack off an invisible lee shore by the seat of his pants, or would pick his landfall, after a two-thousand-mile journey outside of sight of land, within minutes.
“’Tis a pity, young man, that ye ain’t a privateer yerself,” the shellback had said. “That’s real honor— and money, too. Not this button-polishin’, monarchist naval service, as likely to get us into a war with all Europe just to secure themselves a few promotions.”
It wasn’t until Favian caught a glimpse of a veiled woman stalking angrily out of the hall that he’d remembered the note in his hand. I have been very rude, he’d thought with a drunken clarity.
It had not been until dawn that the officers of the United States stumbled back to their bunks. Again there was time for only a few hours’ rest, for Decatur had arranged for Favian and Archibald Hamilton to be aboard the pilot schooner Seaconnet, under Captain Holland, at noon.
Favian was still slightly drunk as he approached the schooner in one of United States’s whaleboats, Nicholson and Hamilton accompanying him in the stern sheets; and Favian found himself lecturing Nicholson like an overpossessive parent on the need to take care of Macedonian’s masts and yards and to make sure that, at sea, the sails were reefed down at night in case of a sudden December gale appearing from the darkness, and on the need to take advantage of their stay in Newport, making certain of the repairs to the hull, some of which had worked loose on the long voyage. Conscious suddenly of his own absurdity, Favian abruptly broke off his lesson, wished Nicholson the best of luck and weather, and came aboard Seaconnet just as its crew was manning the windlass to heave her cable short.
Holland was a compact, muscular man in his mid-forties. His hair was tied in a short, slightly old-fashioned queue. Vigorous and knowledgeable, he was nevertheless very aware of having naval officers on board, and was determined that Seaconnet should prove as efficient a vessel as any in the Navy. The five days’ journey to New York— which would have been shortened to a single night had not westerly December gales forced the schooner to run for New London and New Haven on separate occasions— gave him plenty of opportunity to demonstrate his abilities. Favian found the trip a blissfully peaceful vacation. Despite the bad weather and the irritatingly close confines of the pilot boat’s accommodation, despite Holland’s aggressive insistence on pointing out how well things were done aboard his vessel, Favian was delighted that he had nothing to do. For weeks he’d been worrying over Macedonian like a mother hen over her brood, almost frantic that the jury rig might not hold up, or that a British squadron would appear and render their work pointless, or that Macedonian’s original crew might rise and try to retake the ship. Now his only worries were those of a passenger: whether or not dinner could be cooked and served hot during a gale, or the remote possibility that Seaconnet might not be able to outrun a British cruiser, or that they might find themselves aground somewhere, or dismasted, blinded by the gales.
But Holland was a good man; he knew when to fight the sea and when to seek shelter; Seaconnet passed Hell Gate without incident, and Favian found himself again in the world of naval routine.
Commanding the New York Navy Yard was Isaac Chauncey, one of Preble’s boys and a diehard New England man who had commanded the frigate New York off Tripoli and maneuvered Constitution during the bombardments, when Favian, the Decatur brothers, Somers, and the rest had been battling hand to hand with enemy gunboats.
“Favian Markham, by Jerusalem!” Chauncey exclaimed as Favian stepped into his office and uncovered in salute. “And young Hamilton! I thought ye were at sea! Come, sit by the fire; ye look soaked through, as if ye’d just stepped ashore— d’ye bring news from Captain Decatur?”
“We do, sir,” Favian said. “It’s good news. United States took the thirty-eight-gun frigate Macedonian in October, and brought her home to Newport. We’re carrying the report to Washington City.”
Chauncey’s portly frame was almost dancing with excitement. “That’s another blow for the flag, by thunder!” he barked out. “And perhaps soon there will be another— Bainbridge has taken Constitution out again, with the Hornet. Perhaps Old Ironsides will take another frigate.”
“I pray she will,” Favian said. “I pray we all may.”
“Amen to that,” Chauncey said. “Though my own chances are slim. I’ve just received word from Secretary Hamilton that I’m to ride to Sackett’s Harbor— a sleigh ride it’ll be, in this weather— to take command on the Great Lakes. No frigates there, I’m afraid.”
“You may have to build some.”
Isaac Chauncey’s eyes gleamed. “I may at that, Mr. Markham. But what is it I can do for ye?”
“Commodore Decatur,” Favian said, using the more prestigious, though entirely honorary, title, “hopes to be at New London with the prize in a week. Then he wants to take her to New York. His exact words were that he wants ‘two damn good Hell Gate pilots’ to meet him in New London.”
Chauncey nodded. “I’ll arrange for it.”
Isaac Chauncey saying “I’ll arrange for it” was the equivalent of most men swearing solemn oaths while standing atop a pyramid of bibles: Chauncey was universally conceded to be the Navy’s most reliable figure. Favian thanked him, knowing the business was as good as concluded, and that Chauncey might well throw in a few extra pilots by way of being thorough.
“And we’ll need horses for the ride to Washington,” Favian added. “Can you arrange that, or shall I—?”
“When d’ye need ’em for?” Chauncey asked sharply.
“As soon as is practicable. Tomorrow morning we must pay a visit, on behalf of the commodore, to Wheeler and Tazewell.”
“Prize money, eh?” Chauncey said. “That merchantman Captain Decatur sent in was brought before the prize court and returned to its owners. Sorry to tell ye.”
Favian hadn’t been surprised. Decatur had seized a Philadelphia-bound merchantman a few days before encountering the Macedonian, and on quite flimsy grounds made a prize of her.
“When I heard of it,” Chauncey went on, “I thought to myself, Aha, Decatur’s so eager for action he’ll be sending in fishing smacks next. Hope he finds himself a worthy frigate to sink. Never thought he’d actually bring it home. That’s always been Captain Decatur’s weakness—that eagerness.”
“Yes, sir,” Favian said tactfully, knowing Chauncey was substantially correct. Decatur had been itching for action and was willing to treat even a harmless merchantman as an enemy, at least until the real thing came along. Favian remembered that impetuous first broadside that had so completely missed: too eager. He had fought a cunning battle afterward, though, as if that one broadside had taken the edge off.
“Well, ye can’t wait here till Christmas,” Chauncey said. “I’ll have horses here at the yard by noon tomorrow,”
“Thank you, sir. I’m sure we’re most grateful.”
“And I’ll speak to the mayor about the celebrations we’ll arrange for Macedonian’s arrival,” Chauncey went on, his mind briskly assembling the consequences of the victory. “We’ll try to arrange for a parade, perhaps a theatrical performance. Illuminations, certainly; swords and medals for the officers— a pity I’ll be at Sackett’s Harbor by then. A great day for the Navy, Mr. Markham, when Macedonian was made prize. Mr. Hamilton, it will make your father’s job a good deal easier.”
“I hope it will, sir,” Hamilton said respectfully. When confronted by the awesome majesty of a full captain, midshipmen like Hamilton were supposed to speak only when spoken to.
“And now, gentlemen, if ye’ve warmed yerselves sufficiently, I’ll take the liberty of bringing ye home with me for supper. Let me send a message to Mrs. Chauncey.”
Favian and Archibald Hamilton watched in comfortable amazement as the Navy’s most conspicuous paragon of efficiency arranged the next twenty-four hours of their lives. Clerks were summoned to write orders that would send the pilots to New London, arrange for several horses to be waiting in the yard at noon the next day— Favian and Hamilton to have their choice— and a memorandum was sent to Mrs. Chauncey on the size of the supper party.
Chauncey maintained a superb cook in his household, as his stout figure demonstrated, and he had a good cellar as well. His servants proved to be better drilled than many a ship’s crew, virtually leaping back and forth from the kitchen, snatching empty plates from under surprised noses, refilling wine glasses without being bidden. Apparently Chauncey was as brisk about eating as he was about everything else.
The table talk was almost entirely service gossip— consisting chiefly, on Chauncey’s part, of battles with stupid contractors, crooked suppliers, and ignorant subordinates. Chauncey was diplomatic enough to avoid mentioning any wrangles with Hamilton’s father, the Secretary of the Navy. Archibald Hamilton, responding to Chauncey’s questions, related the history of the fight with Macedonian, sparing no praise for Decatur or Favian. Respectfully, Favian kept out of the conversation altogether, except when he was asked a direct question; he appreciated Chauncey’s interrogative skill in asking the junior member of the company about the action, receiving thereby the opinion least likely to be colored by loyalty or service prejudice.
But chiefly, throughout the meal, Favian wondered just what it was that Isaac Chauncey lacked. Perhaps if he hadn’t spent the last seven years as Decatur’s subordinate the question would never have arisen in his mind; he might not have been so thoroughly aware of some strange, half-spiritual difference between his plump host and the illustrious Decatur. Chauncey was, like Favian, a master of detail; he was sociable, friendly, and obviously intelligent. Unlike Chauncey, unlike anyone else Favian knew, Decatur possessed what the Greeks would have called charisma, the divine grace that made him a natural leader. Few commanders possessed such qualities as Decatur, but they were still good men. Yet, this obvious lack aside, there was still something missing in Chauncey.
Favian had never known Chauncey well, even when they served together off Tripoli, and their paths had not crossed since. Young Lieutenant Chauncey’s coolness, his competence, in quenching a magazine fire that had panicked his captain, had raised him well above Favian’s level before Favian had ever met him. When Favian was a midshipman, dreaming of glory in Constitution’s gun room, Isaac Chauncey already commanded the corvette John Adams, and later the frigate New York. It had been Favian who fought dirty melees from one gunboat to another, while Chauncey had taken over the sailing of the Constitution into the fight, with Commodore Preble directing its gunfire; Chauncey’s job had been clean by comparison, and much tidier.
Perhaps Isaac Chauncey might have been helped by a slower advancement, and by being in those gunboats that had been forced to fight such a messy war. Perhaps it would have given him a certain steel that Favian suspected he lacked. Chauncey was intelligent, and knew his job well; there was certainly no reason to doubt his courage. But Favian suspected he wasn’t a fighter. Criticizing Decatur for his eagerness, when most Navy men would have thought it admirable, was quite possibly the key here. Isaac Chauncey had not been through quite the same school as the rest.
Favian hoped the Navy Department hadn’t been wrong in sending Chauncey to Sackett’s Harbor, but he suspected they would have made a better choice in someone like Johnston Blakely, now wasting his talents in command of the Enterprise brig, or Thomas MacDonough, who, last Favian had heard, was rotting his time away commanding a gunboat flotilla in Maine.
It was not an easy job to which Chauncey had been assigned. His principal command was on Lake Ontario, where the United States had but a single boat to oppose a formidable Canadian squadron. Chauncey’s responsibilities would also extend to Lake Erie, where the British had another squadron, and the United States no vessels at all; the lack of American naval strength had already made its mark in the surrender of Detroit.
But it was hardly courteous for a guest, treated so royally, to have such doubts about his host, and Favian consciously suppressed his speculations. The conversation, continued over cigars and mulled wine in Chauncey’s study, went on long into the night, and then Favian and Hamilton were shown to their rooms.
“A splendid fellow, this Captain Chauncey,” Hamilton laughed the next day, as he and Favian stood on the ferry bringing them and their horses across the Hudson. Off beyond Sandy Hook, on this clear December day, they could see the topsails of two patrolling British frigates, probably the advance guard of Broke’s squadron, reminders of the royal might brought to Manhattan’s front door.
