A matter of honor, p.8
A Matter of Honor, page 8
“Aloft there! Eyes forward!” Jones yelled up to the tops and crosstrees, at lookouts blithely watching the spectacle ashore, oblivious to the threat of a British cruiser prowling the waters ahead, off the entrance to Portsmouth harbor. None was spotted there or farther offshore by the Isles of Shoals, but the danger persisted until Ranger had twenty sea miles in her wake and was beyond the normal patrolling grounds of the North American Station. Only then did the tension on the quarterdeck ease.
“Clear decks and up spirits, starboard watch first,” Jones said to Thomas Simpson, who repeated the order to Joshua Loring, third lieutenant and officer of the watch. Loring repeated the order to a bosun’s mate who set off a shrill of whistles that informed the starboard watch it was free to go below to dinner and a splash of rum.
“The officers shall confer in my cabin,” said Jones to Simpson. “Mr. Callum, I request your presence as well. The quartermaster has the conn.”
“Aye, Captain,” Callum replied. After carefully noting the approximate wind speed and direction, together with the time and the ship’s bearing on a gray slate attached to the side of the binnacle, he descended a short ladder leading from the quarterdeck to the weather deck. From there he took his turn on a longer ladder leading down to the semi-enclosed gun deck, where a green-coated marine sentry stood guard outside the captain’s cabin.
That cabin may have been a modest affair compared to what might be found aboard a Royal Navy vessel, but it was large enough to accommodate the nine men present. Extending athwartship from starboard to larboard quarter, it was essentially one large space with a cubby sternward on the larboard side where the captain slept on a low wooden bunk suspended from the deckhead by ropes. Forward of the cubby, a small desk with inkwell and quill was positioned to catch the light coming in through the glass of the quarter gallery. A few feet forward of the desk, a black gun of twenty-six hundred weight rested on a freshly painted red truck, its muzzle drawn up tight against the bulwark and lashed to two eyebolts above the closed gun port. A second gun similarly secured for heavy weather lay directly across on the starboard side. Toward the back of the cabin, abaft the mizzenmast piercing through from the quarterdeck above, stood a long wooden table and eight heavyset chairs. A settee running along in front of the stern windows provided a degree of domesticity to the cabin, its bright forest green padding of some comfort to the four young men seated upon it. Sunlight streaming in from a deadlight cut into the quarterdeck directly above the table danced around the cabin with the motion of the ship.
“Well, gentlemen,” Jones said, when everyone was settled in, “we are underway at last. We have come to know each other by now, but as this is our first time at sea together, I am curious to know your first impressions of our ship… Mr. Simpson? May I ask you to lead off, sir.”
Thomas Simpson, a long-legged, jut-jawed man with a flinty New England disposition, shrugged his broad shoulders. A decade older than Jones and six inches taller, in dress and demeanor he bore himself like one accustomed to the rigors of life at sea, though the smooth, pale skin on his face and hands suggested a career less exposed to the elements. As first lieutenant, he was responsible for the day-to-day running of the ship and the dispositions of crews. He also selected the petty officers and assumed command of the vessel should the captain step ashore or be incapacitated.
“It’s too soon to tell for certain,” he said, “but she seems fit enough to me. Her sails aren’t what we’d prefer, certainly. How unfortunate Mr. Langdon was unable to come by a new set before we sailed, though Lord knows he tried his best. We shall attend to that once we are in France, I assume?”
He was referring to the inferior hemp-and-jute blend of Ranger’s plain sails, all that was available, according to John Langdon, on such short notice after the victory at Saratoga. It was material more often used for bagging.
“That is my intention, Mr. Simpson. Mr. Hall? What is your opinion?”
Elijah Hall nodded his head approvingly. As second lieutenant he was the senior duty officer, next in line to assume command, and senior officer on the gun deck.
“I agree with Mr. Simpson, sir. Like he said, Ranger appears sound enough. She has a clean run. Secure proper canvas on her, and we could play cat and mouse with any vessel our size.”
“An excellent metaphor, Mr. Hall, assuming we have prepared ourselves to play the part of the cat and not the mouse.” After some polite laughter, he asked, to the room at large, “Is there anything else?”
“Aye, there is,” commented David Callum. He personified both seamanship and authority as he sat resting his elbow on the table, gently stroking his grayish-white beard. “Her ballast is off, Captain. And she’s too heavy in the bows. Move twenty-five, maybe thirty pigs aft from the forepeak to midships and she’d sail better.”
“I agree. Make it so, Mr. Simpson… Other observations? You midshipmen there: have you anything to add?”
He glared at the four midshipmen lined up on the settee. David Wendell, at twelve years of age the youngest and most recent aboard ship, recoiled from the thrust of the question. He squirmed in retreat, wiggling backward until he was leaning against the stern glass. Being in so sacred a space as the captain’s cabin was humbling enough; being directly addressed by the captain left him staring wide-eyed and mute.
“Sir,” said Richard Cutler, “I agree with Mr. Callum that Ranger’s bows are heavy and that moving lead aft will help balance her. But with respect, I believe the problem is more with her spars. They seem too big for a ship this size. And I believe her main and fore masts are stepped too far forward. I agree with Mr. Hall, her hull does have a clean run, but she’s overburdened aloft. The way she’s rigged is pushing her stem down, slowing her.”
Jones nodded his approval. “Thank you, Mr. Cutler. You have stated my own observations, exactly”
Jones allowed his gaze to relax a moment on Richard Cutler, who noticed instead the look of astonishment mixed with disapproval contorting the face of Thomas Simpson. Jones turned back to his more senior officers.
“Gentlemen, let us review our orders. We are bound for France to deliver a dispatch of utmost importance to our commissioners in Paris. Nothing must interfere with our purpose or delay us unnecessarily Therefore we shall not be taking prizes on this leg of the cruise. But he said in louder tones, above a burst of grumbling at the table, “delivering dispatches has never been our primary mission. Once Ranger has the repairs she requires, we shall take her across the Channel into English waters. This I have already told you. What I have not told you is what I intend to do once we get there.”
He unrolled a chart on the table and continued talking as he placed weights on the four corners to hold them down. “While I am in Paris, you officers will see to the repairs. Mr. Simpson, you will be in charge. Before I leave, I will make arrangements for payment to be made to the Nantes shipyard which, I am told, is one of the finest in France. Which is saying something. The French make damn fine ships. When 1 return, I expect to find Ranger ready for sea.
“We shall then sail from Nantes for England, to this area here.” He indicated a general area north of Wales, between Britain and Ireland. “I know these waters. I was born and raised there, in Arbigland. I can think of no better place to carry out our orders.”
“Which are to hamper enemy shipping and capture prizes?” queried the second lieutenant hopefully.
“No, Mr. Hall. That is not what we are about, though prizes may come our way as a result of what we do.” Jones placed his hands flat on the chart and leaned forward, a thin smile on his lips and a gleam of fire in his eyes. “Gentlemen, hear me out. What I intend to do, no man has done since William the Conqueror. I intend to attack England herself, where she is most vulnerable. Here.” His finger stabbed at a wide-mouthed firth cutting deep into the land, a strip of water that marked the border between England and Scotland. “White haven is a large shipping port in the Irish Sea. I can assure you, there will be boats aplenty lying at anchor in the harbor. Merchantmen mostly, some fishermen perhaps. The havoc we wreak there will turn our enemy on his ear.”
Thomas Simpson laughed out loud. “A one-ship invasion force?” he scoffed. “Surely, Captain, you jest.”
Jones gave Simpson a look that no one in that cabin would soon forget.
“I do not jest, Mr. Simpson. I… do… not… jest. My orders from Congress are to proceed in the manner I deem most appropriate for destroying the enemies of the United States, by sea or otherwise. I intend to comply with those orders.”
“If I may, sir,” said the captain of marines. The shock in his voice betrayed the steady outward appearance of the professional soldier. “What do we attack with? I have but thirty marines under my command. And your sailors, if I may are not trained for a mission of this sort. It seems a plan of extremely high risk unless we are able to strike and run, with the element of surprise entirely on our side.”
“Quite so, Mr. Wallingford.”
There was no one in that cabin Jones respected more than Lt. Samuel Wallingford. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dignified in his green dress coat, he was every man’s image of a seasoned military officer. More than once Jones had wondered what act of God had brought this stylish and competent officer to his quarterdeck.
“I assure you, sir,” Jones went on, “that we shall have ample time to review our campaign to the last detail, and that I shall not proceed with any plan before seeking your counsel. As to the risks, I remind you that we are at war. War necessitates taking risks, even when those risks seem insurmountable. Given what I am convinced will be the result of our efforts, I believe the risks are worth taking.
“As to our present cruise, Ranger is a naval vessel, and as such, we must demand naval discipline of ourselves and our crew. Beginning today at three bells in the afternoon watch, and every day to follow with the exception of Sundays, we will clear for action and drill with guns, small arms, swords, and pikes. We have powder enough but limited round shot. For that reason we must delay live drills with the guns until their crews have mastered the basics. In addition, I want those crews at their stations every morning at dawn, prepared to fire. The odds are small, I grant you, but the cloak of night, once lifted, could reveal our enemy close by.
“That is not all,” he said, his voice rising with pique aimed at his first and second lieutenants who were staring at each other and not at him. “Each day at four bells in the forenoon watch, we will conduct a different sort of drill. Let’s see how long it takes to send the topsail yard down to a gantline and haul it back up with the capstan. In a storm, gentlemen, we won’t have time to consider what should be done. We must react to what must be done, which is to get those spars off her as rapidly as possible. The same holds true in battle. Should we lose a mast or piece of rigging, or be holed by the enemy, every man on this ship must know what to do at that moment. Improper training breeds doubt, and I needn’t tell you gentlemen that hesitation in battle could mean the loss of our ship and our lives.
“You have your orders,” he said, concluding the meeting in more normal tones. “They are not open to discussion. Unless you have specific questions of me, you are excused to your duties until three bells.”
Officers scraped back their chairs and began filing out of the cabin in order of rank, the four midshipmen last.
“Mr. Cutler, a word, if you please,” said Jones unexpectedly. Richard stood at attention in front of the settee until the others had gone and they were alone.
“I shan’t keep you long,” Jones said, sitting down by the table and beckoning Richard over. “I haven’t had much opportunity to speak to you privately since you arrived in Portsmouth. All is well, I trust?”
“Yes, Captain, thank you.”
“You’re finding your way about the ship?”
“I am, sir. Mr. Hall is right. She’s a fine ship. With a few repairs, she’ll make us all proud.”
“It seems that’s the one point we can all agree on,” Jones said wearily. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “Changing the subject, I note with interest your friendship with Mr. Crabtree. I understand why. He may be a bit odd in his ways, but in my opinion he has the makings of a fine naval officer. It’s why I selected him. He is well regarded in Portsmouth shipping circles.… As for you, Mr. Cutler, I must say, you have established a rapport with the crew that in my experience is really quite remarkable. Chain of command involves respect going down as well as up. It’s a difficult concept for many officers to grasp. You seem to have mastered it rather quickly.”
“Perhaps, Captain, that’s because I have served before the mast in my father’s ships. I have lived their life and know how demanding such a life can be.”
“Worse even than that of a midshipmen?” smiled Jones.
“Hardly that bad, sir,” Richard replied, returning the smile.
“Yes, well, whatever it is, the men do what you ask and they appear to do it willingly. That, I assure you, is a rarity at sea.”
There was a knock on the door. Jacob Walden, surgeon’s mate doubling as captain’s steward, entered the cabin holding a tray.
“Yer dinner, Captain. Would ye be havin’ it now?”
“Leave it on the table, Walden,” Jones replied, adding, when the door was shut, without so much as a glance at what was in store for him, “I’d wish my steward’s talents on Admiral Howe himself. That would end this war soon enough. Black Dick would choke just looking at what my steward sets before me.” He heaved a heartfelt sigh of regret before changing the subject again.
“What do you make of my plan to use Ranger as a one-ship invasion force, as Mr. Simpson describes it?”
“It’s bold, Captain,” replied Richard, having given the matter some thought during the previous few minutes.
“Bold?”
“Yes sir. It’s bold because it doesn’t rely on success. American marines landing on British soil will have its effect, no matter the outcome.”
Jones banged his fist on the table. “Thank you, Mr. Cutler. I see my confidence in you is not misplaced. Have no doubts: you shall land with the marines at Whitehaven. I promised you revenge, and by God you shall have it.”
Richard nodded, his steadfast gaze communicating the gratitude he felt.
“Now I must ask another question of you,” Jones said, holding that gaze. “A rather delicate one, I realize. What are the men saying about me? I am asking you because a midshipman is the captain’s link to the fo’c’sle and because I trust your judgment. You may speak frankly I need to hear the truth.”
Richard hesitated. It was indeed a delicate question given the vast difference in rank and experience between them. As he often did when faced with a dilemma of this sort, he resorted to giving what was requested: the truth.
“Yankee seamen are not accustomed to naval discipline,” he said. “Therefore they don’t always take kindly to it.”
“That, or any other sort of discipline,” Jones scoffed. “We’re not in a bloody town meeting aboard this ship, though that’s what my senior officers seem to think…. Sorry,” he said, remembering himself. “That was uncalled for. Please advise me, Mr. Cutler: given the crew’s lack of naval discipline, how do I best deal with them? They’re your people, not mine, and their perspectives are quite outside my experience. Remember, you have my permission to speak frankly.”
Again Richard weighed the question carefully before answering.
“When circumstances permit, Captain, I would advise you to act more like a Yankee sea captain and less like a Royal Navy officer.”
“Yes? And what exactly does that mean?”
“A Yankee captain is viewed by his mates and crew as a first among equals. He has earned his position, and he must continue to earn it. Therefore he would not isolate himself in his cabin or on the quarterdeck. If invited, he would dine with his officers in the wardroom, and he would be visible to the crew on deck. He would also invite his officers to his cabin, not as a group, perhaps two at a time. That way, he would come to know them as individuals and they would come to know him as their captain.”
“Sea captains throughout history have isolated themselves. It’s a requirement of the service.”
“In the Royal Navy, yes, Captain. But here in the Continental Navy we have no history or traditions of our own. These men are silversmiths and shopkeepers, untested in battle, and they do not know you. And begging your pardon, sir, Yankees are not prone to like Scots. You have not lived long in America, and perhaps they are wondering why you’re fighting on our side. I believe it’s possible for you to gain their confidence and trust without losing their respect. But it will take time.”
Jones gave that perspective some thought. “Good advice, Mr. Cutler. Difficult advice for me to follow, I daresay, but good advice nonetheless. And I thank you for being so open. Not many junior officers would have spoken to their captain the way you just did.” He cleared his throat, an act that simultaneously cleared the thoughtful expression from his face. “One final item. As soon as we anchor in Nantes, and I have seen to Ranger’s repairs, I shall be leaving for Paris. On my journey I shall require the assistance of an aide-de-camp. I have selected you, Mr. Cutler. You will accompany me and Mr. Wallingford. I have informed Lieutenant Simpson of my decision. That is all.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Richard gathered up his cocked hat and overcoat from the table. He saluted Jones and walked through the door of the cabin, past the marine sentry, out onto the sun-washed gun deck where he noted Joshua Loring amidships examining one of the sixteen guns. He touched his hat to the youthful officer, grateful he was on board. Normally a ship the size of Ranger would not require a third lieutenant, but in the Continental Navy there were more officer candidates than there were slots to fill. Loring came from a good Salem family and was, to Richard’s mind, a thoroughly decent individual and competent sailor. Jones agreed with that assessment and had, on his own authority, signed him on.
