How Dark the Night (20 page)

And unlike virtually all U.S. Navy warships, HMS
Leopard
boasted a stern richly adorned with two tiers of mullioned windows, white trim all around, a glossy blue band painted starboard to larboard beneath the lower tier, and four chaste maidens in flowing pewter-gray robes: one each at the starboard and larboard edges of the stern, and two others positioned in toward the center. It was this decorative stern that Robert Larkin and his shipmates took in after they had swept past the cruiser, come about into the wind, doused main and jib, and run out a set of oars through rowlocks cut into the cutter's top strake.

As they were pulling toward the larboard entry port, a figure wearing a fore-and-aft bicorne hat popped up at the taffrail.

“Boat ahoy!” his prepubescent voice called down. The hail of the junior watch officer was a matter of protocol only. Those on board
Leopard
had long since identified the cutter as one of their own ship's boats.

“Boat, aye!” Seth Cutler shouted up, those two words signifying that there was a commissioned officer on board the approaching boat. That
he held up no fingers signaled that the officer was not of senior rank and therefore did not require a formal side party at the entry port.

As the cutter coasted in under the ship's larboard quarter gallery, Seaman Kelliher, stationed in the bow with a boathook, made ready to latch on to the mainmast chain-wale. He lunged, and the hook found its mark. Kelliher hauled the cutter up to the chain-wale, secured the bowline to the thick plank of oak jutting out from it, and then played the line out until the cutter had drifted back up beside the steps built into the ship's tumble-home. Robert Larkin was first up, in deference to his rank of third lieutenant; he was followed by Midshipman Cutler and then Boatswain Duggan. Seamen Paulus and Kelliher remained in the cutter to disassemble and stow the mast and bowsprit, and to otherwise aid the deck crew assigned to hauling the ship's boat back on board to her normal position above the main hatch.

First Lieutenant Bradford Morse met the returning officers at the entry port. “Welcome back,” he said, returning their salutes. From the belfry, located at the break of main deck and forecastle, the ship's bell chimed six times in three double hits. “A fruitful sojourn, I trust?”

“I believe it was, sir,” Larkin replied.

“Excellent. And how did you find the city of Baltimore, Mr. Cutler?”

“I found it interesting, sir,” Seth replied.

“Yes, I thought you might. Didn't happen to run into one of your American cousins, did you?”

Seth stood at stiff attention. “No, sir, I did not.”

Morse studied him a moment, then: “I imagine you three to be a bit cold and hungry. Might I suggest you go below for a change of clothes and a bite to eat? Mr. Larkin, you and I shall confer with Captain Humphreys at seven bells—unless, of course, you see a need for greater urgency.”

“I do not, sir,” Larkin assured him. “Seven bells will serve.”

“Very well. In thirty minutes, then.”

T
HE LOOKOUT
stationed on the fighting top secured to the head of the lower mainmast was the first to make out the black hulk. It was not an easy sighting; the moon was in its dark phase, and stars and planets peeking out between scattered clouds provided the only light from the heavens above. But the mass was dark, darker than the night itself, and it was standing to the southeast and moving slowly, like a phantom, in a sea breeze that had all but died during the late evening. Once the phantom was in the seaman's sight, however, he had her cold. He had no need for a night glass. She was not far off, and the seaman could see well enough
with his naked eye to determine that the rig on this vessel was similar to the rig he had been ordered to watch for.

The seaman called softly below to report his sighting. A deck officer relayed his message aft to the quarterdeck; from there a duty midshipman relayed it to the captain's after cabin located beneath the ship's poop deck. Within the minute, Captain Humphreys stepped out onto the quarterdeck, buttoning up his gilt-edged blue uniform coat and smoothing his unruly ash-colored hair before setting upon it, just so, a gilt-edged bicorne hat.

At age twenty-eight, Humphreys was tall, handsome, and lean—and highly respected both by his ship's officers and by his superiors at the Admiralty. His no-nonsense attitude and his ability to make hard decisions and get things done had won him many accolades. The third son of a vicar and his wife, Humphreys had entered the Royal Navy through the “hawser hole,” not through a “wardroom quarter gallery” as was true of many of Britain's senior naval officers. He had enlisted in 1790 as an able seaman and had worked his way up through the ranks to post captain as a result of his achievements, not his pedigree or “interest” in Whitehall or Parliament. His derring-do in the North Sea and the West Indies had caught the eyes of My Lords of the Admiralty in London and, soon thereafter, the heart of a rich English heiress living in Kent. Their marriage had made Humphreys a very wealthy man, a status that seemed to suit him as perfectly as the elegant blue, white, and gold uniform he had become accustomed to wearing.

Second Lieutenant Trevor Elliot touched his hat. “Good evening, Captain.”

“Good evening, Mr. Elliot,” Humphreys replied. “What do we have?”

“We have sighted a two-masted vessel, sir,” the senior officer of the deck replied. “She appears to be snow-rigged.”

“The
Dolphin
, then.”

“It would seem so, sir. Mr. Larkin and Mr. Cutler were quite specific in their description of her. We won't know for certain until first light.”

“Quite so, Lieutenant,” Humphreys acknowledged. He scoured the waters where Elliot had pointed. Yes, there she was: a dark shape standing in toward shore under jib, topsails, and what appeared to be a trysail. “Well, whoever she is,” he said to his officer, “we shall shadow her throughout the night and in the morning see what we see. I want all running lights kept extinguished and the ship rigged for night sailing. Unless, of course, she starts to get away from us, in which case we shall have to set additional canvas to keep her close. No doubt she has spotted us, and to
be safe, she will hug the shore. May these light northerlies continue. Were we to sail too far south and too far in, we should have the Hatteras shoals to contend with, and perhaps a lee shore. Be aware of that, Mr. Elliot, and please inform me immediately of any changes.”

Elliot touched a forefinger to his hat. “Aye, Captain.”

Early the next morning, under dark cloud cover that threatened rain or sleet or a dreary combination, the sighting was confirmed. The vessel in question was indeed a snow, and the name painted in bold black script on her stern was summoned into sharp focus by a long glass. She stood not more than a mile downwind from
Leopard
, and although the British warship was flying neither her ensign nor her jack, those in the snow clearly had recognized the British warship for what she was.
Dolphin
had pressed on all sail and was running as best she could west-southwest toward the Virginia shoreline lying low on the horizon. The officers in
Leopard
were well aware that the shoreline harbored, among other amenities, the U.S. naval base at Hampton Roads.

“She's showing us her heels, sir,” First Officer Bradford Morse, newly arrived on the quarterdeck, commented to Captain Humphreys.

“Showing us her guilt is what you mean, Mr. Morse,” Humphreys replied airily. “If she had no reason to run from us,
why
would she run? She knows who we are and what we're about. So, by God, we shall accommodate her. Clap on all sail.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Boatswain Duggan issued the order, and twittering boatswain's pipes sent sailors scurrying to their stations. On the lowest yards the main and fore courses fell into position and were sheeted home just as sugar-white topgallants sprouted above the three topsails, and royals sprouted above them. Barring the unforeseen, this race had only one possible outcome. A heavily laden merchant vessel was no match for a copper-bottomed warship that had set all plain sail to royals. Although in these light sea breezes it took nearly an hour to close the gap between the two vessels, it was evident to all concerned that the heavy cruiser would indeed close that gap before the snow could reach the safety that remained tauntingly within view. It was a question of mathematics as much as seamanship.

“Give her a hail, Mr. Morse,” Humphreys said when the British warship was even with the American vessel and fifty yards upwind of her.
Leopard
's crew lowered her royals and topgallants and raised her main and fore courses to their yard to slow her and keep her abreast of
Dolphin
.

Morse picked up a speaking trumpet and demanded that the snow douse her trysail, square her main topsail, and heave to.

Seconds ticked by with no response from the snow. Morse repeated his demands and issued a stern warning of the consequences of not responding. Still nothing happened.
Dolphin
remained on course.

“Give her a warning shot,” Humphreys demanded, his dander rising.

Leopard
's larboard bow-chaser barked, and orange flame and white sparks vomited forth within a swirl of acrid smoke that the prevailing breeze carried toward the snow. The ball struck the sea ahead of the snow and sent up a plume of white water.

Dolphin
sailed on, as if oblivious to the vision of terrible beauty hovering so close to starboard.

“My God!” Humphreys snarled. “That ship's master either has balls of iron or he's a bloody dunderhead. What on earth does he intend?”

“If I may, sir,” Morse said, his eyes fixed on the merchantman, “I believe he intends to ignore us. He's calling our bluff. He's betting that a British warship will not fire into an American merchant vessel.”

“I believe you are right, Mr. Morse,” Humphreys mused. “I believe you are right. The bastard's playing a dangerous game. I shall have the larboard gun ports opened and the guns run out.”

“Aye, Captain,” Morse said and issued the order. “Larboard ports opened and guns run out, sir,” he confirmed moments later.

Humphreys considered the opportunity and the possible ramifications of pursuing that opportunity. As he saw it, both might and right were entirely on his side. He had strict orders from the admiral of the North American Station in Halifax to pursue and bring to justice British deserters from whatever hole they might be dragged out of. There was no question about the order, and no question that there were British deserters on
Dolphin
. Whitehall could not and would not tolerate desertion from a Royal Navy vessel, consequences be damned, and the most reliable safeguard against desertion was swift and ruthless punishment of those foolish enough to cross the line. If hapless bystanders were maimed or killed in the course of dispensing British justice, well, that was regrettable.

“Stand by, number two battery,” Humphreys said to his first officer.

“Aye, Captain,” Morse said before repeating the order to the deck officer and so on down the line.

Number two battery was located forward from amidships on the upper gun deck and consisted of four 12-pounder guns: guns 5 and 7 on the larboard side, and guns 6 and 8 on the starboard side. At the moment, the sights of the battery's two larboard guns were trained level at
Dolphin
's starboard hull. Midshipman Seth Cutler, the battery's commanding
officer, received the order to stand by from a younger midshipman acting as the captain's messenger.

With a practiced eye, Seth checked the powder and shot within the two gleaming black muzzles. After informing the individual gun captains that he intended to take charge of firing the guns, he ordered each man in the two six-man gun crews to take position. When the next order was delivered a few minutes later by the same midshipman, Seth stepped aside to position himself between the two guns, ordered his gun crew to step back away from the recoil, and seized hold of the lanyard of gun 5.

“
Firing!
” he shouted and yanked hard on the lanyard. An explosion of gunpowder thundered across the gun deck. Seth wheeled around and repeated the process with gun 7. A second explosion sent another shudder along the 120-foot deck that was instantly reinforced by the harsh rumble of a gun carriage rocketing inboard until checked by its breeching ropes. Then, all was quiet except for the distant cries of stricken men in a stricken vessel.

Seth Cutler stepped up to a gun port and peered out at
Dolphin
lying slightly astern. One round shot had punched a sizable gash in her mainmast and had sprung a mainstay. Judging by the snow's haphazard movements, Seth deemed it likely that the second shot had damaged her steering mechanism.

Leopard
had heaved to, and Seth could overhear orders from the deck above to lower the ship's launch and make ready a detachment of Marines. Lieutenant Larkin was to command the boarding party, and Seth could only imagine, not without a sting of empathy, the expression on the face of Seaman Cates and his three shipmates as Larkin boarded the snow to make the arrests. Just two nights earlier they had all been friends on the walk from a Baltimore public house to
Dolphin
. Now those four sailors and perhaps others were destined for London to appear before an Admiralty court. It was a foregone conclusion that they would be found guilty: the U.S. merchant fleet had become a haven for British tars running from the harsh realities of the Royal Navy toward the higher pay, better food, and greater leniency normally found in American merchantmen. British courts of law, however, recognized neither the right of expatriation nor the principle of sailors' rights. To their mind, a British sailor born in Great Britain or to British parents remained British to his grave regardless of where he lived, whose flag he sailed under, or what naturalization papers he might possess. “Once an Englishman, always an Englishman,” was Whitehall's view, and British courts of law concurred—notwithstanding the simple fact that nearly the entire population of the United
States fell within the purview of that statement. Better if Cates had died quickly from a round shot, Seth thought to himself as the launch was lowered away, than the slow death he would suffer kicking and gagging at the end of a rope strung up over a lower foremast yard.