The Power and the Glory (28 page)

Despite the mutilation of the French vessel's top-hamper and what had to be a gruesome litter of bodies and body parts strewn about her decks, the tricolor still fluttered from what was now the cap of her mizzen, and she had run out her starboard guns, less three that had been put out of action.

Constellation
, her sails a-luff on the edge of the wind and her great spanker boom jouncing up and down under the lack of strain, waited for
L'Insurgente
to catch up and surrender. Richard glanced aft. Captain Truxtun stood near the helm between John Rodgers and Nate Waverly, the three of them watching the wounded French frigate as though she were simply an interesting spectacle at sea, not the enemy of a few minutes ago that had hurled a half-ton of hot iron in their direction.

When
L'Insurgente'
s splintered bowsprit came parallel to
Constellation'
s stern, Truxtun brought a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

“
Monsieur le capitaine de frégate française
,” he hailed, “do you strike?”

In reply,
L‘Insurgente'
s foremost starboard gun flashed fire. The ball missed its mark—whatever that had been—and splashed into the sea a hundred yards beyond
Constellation'
s starboard quarter.

Instantly, white flames shot out from 6-pounder guns on
Constellation'
s weather deck, while below, guns number twelve and fourteen, larboard side, roared out their anger. American Marines, standing or kneeling behind a wall of hammocks, opened fire with muskets. Above, in the tops, Marines brought swivel guns to bear on the Frenchman's deck, peppering it with half-pound iron balls, scrap iron, and langrage, striking men already spent from battle, slicing their flesh into jelly and spatters of skin and bone.

Richard climbed to the weather deck and walked forward, drawn as though mesmerized by this vision of hell fifty yards to larboard. It was now a hopelessly one-sided affair.
Constellation‘
s guns were taking a horrific toll, punching at the Frenchman's hull with iron fists, cracking her strakes, smashing through her gun ports, undoing her chain plates and channels, and laying waste to her bulwarks and railing. Each shot that found its mark launched an army of lethal wooden shrapnel into the air.
L'Insurgente
was putting up a brave front, but her cause was hopeless. For every haphazard round she managed to get off,
Constellation
responded with two or three of her own, her aim true with nearly every shot. Months of grueling exercise at the guns had paid off. The battle was over, the victor crowned. At arduous length,
L‘Insurgente'
s officers finally accepted the inevitable and ordered their remaining guns silenced and the tricolor hauled down.

Captain Truxtun will be pleased tonight, Richard thought as he made his way back amidships to the ladder leading below. He was considering the ramifications of the victory when suddenly there came a cry of warning from above.

“Mr. Cutler, look out! Above you!”

Richard glanced up to see a broken yard careening off a lower yard, plunging straight down at him. In the few brief, terrifying moments he had to react, he lunged to his left and threw up his hands—too late. The end of the heavy wooden spar grazed his right shoulder and whipped in against the side of his face, sending him sprawling onto the deck, ending thought and claiming the light from his eyes.

 

“LIEUTENANT CUTLER is coming to, sir. Shall I inform Dr. Balfour?”

“Not yet, John. Let's wait and see what we'll have to tell him first.”

Richard heard this brief exchange as if in a dream. Perhaps it
was
only a dream. He prayed it was. His head throbbed. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Even the simple act of moving the fingers on his right hand caused a flame to shoot up his arm to his shoulder, where it combined forces with whatever demons of agony lurked there to send white-hot pain through his neck, head, and body. He opened his eyes, closed them, opened them again. He glanced upward at a confined space he recognized as the sick bay at the forward end of the berthing deck. This, then, was no dream. From the corners of his eyes he saw, standing on each side of the cot, two of the ship's complement: Surgeon's Mate Isaac Henry and a loblolly boy named John Wall. He tried to look more directly at them but found that he could not. Not because of the pain, agonizing as that was. Because he was unable to move his head.

Henry tried to calm Richard's sudden surge of panic. “Do not be alarmed, Lieutenant,” he said in his best soothing bedside manner. “You are in what is called a figure-of-eight splint. Dr. Balfour fashioned it himself. See here.” He combined thumb and middle finger and gently flicked the finger against Richard's neck below his chin. Richard braced for a jolt of pain. None came, only the light thump of a finger hitting wood. “It prevents you from turning your head, you see, and thus allows the clavicle to heal properly. It's broken, I'm sorry to report. You have other scrapes and bruises, and tendons that require mending. But that clavicle of yours is our main concern.”

“It's broken?” Richard rasped. He had no idea what a clavicle was, although he had a good sense of where it was.

“Oh yes, quite broken, I'm afraid. But it will heal as good as new if you remain still for a while. That means no skylarking in the rigging for the next several months.” His benign smile comforted his patient. “If it's any consolation, Lieutenant, it could have been far worse. Had that spar struck you a few inches over, or had it not been deflected on its way down, I doubt we would be having this conversation.”

Richard winced. “The pain . . .”

“Ah yes, the pain. You'll be feeling
that
for a while yet. It will lessen with time, as the healing progresses. John, be a good fellow and fetch me a vial of laudanum from the chest. Our lieutenant has need of it.”

Hours after swallowing the tincture of opium, Richard regained a better degree of consciousness. The dizziness and nausea had eased a
little, and he was no longer bone tired. Into his view came the face of David Porter, who rose from a chair at the bedside when Richard opened his eyes.

“Good day, Mr. Porter,” Richard managed. He had no notion why the young midshipman was here or why the skin around his eyes appeared so gray and puffy. He looked as though he had either been smacked in a fight or sobbing like a woman. “Assuming it is day.”

“It is, sir,” Porter replied. “Three bells in the forenoon watch. How are you feeling, sir?”

“I've felt better,” Richard said irritably, in no mood for small talk. He waited for Porter to explain himself, which he did after a good deal of hand wringing.

“Sir,” he said meekly, “I fear I must apologize.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“It was I, sir, who dropped that spar on you.”

Richard tried to turn his head, a simple act that caused a frontal assault of searing pain. He clenched his teeth until the pain subsided. “How so?” he rasped.

“Well, sir, as you know, I was stationed in the maintop with the Marines.” Porter spoke rapidly, as though eager to explain himself and release a heavy burden of guilt. “Early on during the battle, our mainmast was struck. It began to teeter. Later on it was struck again, and this time it appeared it would topple over. I hailed the deck but no one heard me. So I climbed up to the topmast and cut away the slings.” He dropped his eyes. “It seemed the right thing to do.”

“It
was
the right thing to do, John,” Richard croaked. The lad's remorse had touched him deeply. “You saved the mast. All might have been lost if you hadn't cut away that spar.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. But in saving the mast I injured you. And truly, I would give anything if I hadn't.”

“Belay that, John,” Richard said over a grimace. “You did your duty. And you needn't worry about me. The surgeon says I'll be up and as good as new in no time. We took
L'Insurgente
as a prize?”

“We did, sir!” Porter exclaimed. “Right after . . . right after you were laid out, she struck her colors.”

“Where is she now?”

“Anchored not fifty feet from us, sir. Captain Truxtun has appointed Lieutenant Rodgers her captain, and I am to be one of her midshipmen. We're to remain here in Saint Kitts for another day or two, to jury-rig
her for our voyage to Portsmouth. We'll make more substantial repairs there.”

“Portsmouth? You're taking
L'Insurgente
to Virginia?”

Porter hesitated. “Yes, sir. And
Constellation
will accompany us. We're going home, sir,” he said with an uncontrolled burst of glee.

Home. For David Porter, Virginia
was
home, so his joy was understandable. Virginia, however, was a goodly distance from Massachusetts. Thoughts of home nonetheless flooded his mind—images of his family, of his sons and daughter and brother and father, of Katherine and her loving ways. Then a terrible thought hit him. Could his injury mean the end of his naval career? Would he be summarily shipped off as an invalid to sit on a Hingham beach and ponder for the rest of his years what might have been? To his mind there was no worse fate, and a gnawing fear of that fate persisted in nightmares long after he had fallen back to sleep.

The brilliant light of day was fading into twilight when he awoke to find Thomas Truxtun and George Balfour staring down at him. His captain was dressed casually in buff trousers and a loose white cotton shirt. Richard closed his eyes, willing himself fully awake, feeling ever so much like an animal on display in a cage.

“Well, well, Mr. Cutler,” Truxtun announced with a flourish, “I can see for myself that the rumors of your recovery have not been misconstrued. That nasty bruise on your face should keep the women at bay for a spell, and that splint will, for once, force your eyes front and center. But I must say that I am pleased to find your head still intact. We put the method of treatment to a vote, and to a man the ship's company voted for amputation. Fortunately for you, Dr. Balfour here stepped in to save your neck.”

Despite his pain and misery, Richard had to crack a smile. He had never seen his captain so exuberant, nor heard him joke in that carefree manner. The glory of victory had something to do with it, no doubt, but so also, he suspected, did the promise of wealth that came along with that victory. Captain Truxtun's three-twentieths share of the prize money would yield him many thousands of dollars—more than a commodore typically earned in a lifetime—whatever value the Admiralty Court might ultimately place on
L'Insurgente
. His own share of prize money, Richard was aware, was no trifling matter. Everyone serving in
Constellation
, whatever his rank, would share in the winnings—along with the U.S. Treasury, of course.

His eyes moved to the studious-looking Balfour, who wore a dark green coat with black velvet lapels and stand-up collar, the badge of office for an American naval surgeon. “Thank you for your care, Doctor,” he said.

Balfour inclined his head in reply.

Richard's gaze returned to Truxtun. “What of
Constellation
, sir? She's in need of repairs.”

“We're seeing to those.” He pointed upward. “Those sounds you hear are hammers and saws on the weather deck. Her rigging's shot up, but her hull shows no damage. None whatsoever,” he added pointedly. “And she took many hits. By Jove, that oak
is
worth the misery and suffering its harvest entailed.”

“What of casualties?”

“We lost four men. Four dead, that is. The wounded, apart from yourself, have been transferred ashore, along with 173 prisoners, including the French captain, a rather cheeky fellow who actually accused me of causing a war with France. If so, I informed this fellow, Barreaut, then I am glad of it, for I detest doing things by halves.” Truxtun smiled.

“What did the French captain do then?”

“Looked at me as though I were something he had found stuck to the bottom of his boot.” Truxtun's look turned more serious. “But back to the dead. We lost three in action: Seamen Andrews, Wilson, and Waters. Harvey—well, you know about him.”

“Yes, sir. I was there, sir. Lieutenant Sterrett gave Harvey a fair warning. I am willing to testify to that in court, if need be.”

“I am sure Mr. Sterrett would appreciate that, Mr. Cutler, though I doubt very much it will be necessary. The facts are what they are, and there are many other witnesses. Now then,” he added in that same business-like tone, “here's where we stand. I have appointed Mr. Rodgers captain of
L‘Insurgente
. That makes you my first, when you rejoin the ship, though I shall recommend that your promotion take effect immediately. Three days from now, on Thursday,
Constellation
and
L'Insurgente
will weigh anchor for Portsmouth. Mr. Sterrett will serve as my acting first lieutenant during the cruise home. On Wednesday we will see you ashore to the local hospital.”

Richard's eyebrows arched upward. “You're sending me ashore, sir? Am I not to be sailing with you to Virginia?”

“No, Mr. Cutler, you are not,” Truxtun stated emphatically. “You are hardly in a condition to sail anywhere at the moment.”

“But, sir,” Richard protested, “I can heal along the way.”

“You will heal faster if you remain here, Mr. Cutler. The tropical sun does wonders for the human body. Once you are up and about and the doctors give you permission, you may leave Saint Kitts if you choose and travel to some other island. There are, of course, a number of possibilities, but might I suggest Barbados? I've found it particularly pleasant this time of year.”

“Barbados, sir?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. Barbados. It's an island south of here, in the Windwards. Oh, how forgetful of me. You have family there, don't you. Well, what a lovely coincidence that is. I can't imagine a better place for you to recuperate from your wounds. Just keep in mind that
Constellation
will be returning to Saint Kitts in October. When we do, I expect to find you here on the docks looking as hale as Hercules and as tanned as Toussaint. Do I make myself clear?”