Atlantic Ocean, twelve miles east of the Virginia Capes

June 22, 1807

CHAPTER I

* * *

The shout, too high, too strained, came cracking down from the crow’s nest, seventy feet up the mainmast of the American Navy man-of-war USS Chesapeake.

“Sail! Nor’east, stern, portside. About three miles.”

Every sun- and wind-burned face on the main deck of the small frigate jerked upward, squinting into the blinding light of the midday sun in a cloudless late June sky, to see the outthrust arm of the barefooted, bearded seaman, wearing the uniform of the fledgling United States Navy, pointing over the stern toward a sail those on deck could not yet see. For one breathless second the only sounds were the warm northeast wind in the rigging, the creaking of the two masts and six yardarms, and the quiet hiss of the sixteen-foot curl the little ship was cutting in the green-black waters of the Atlantic. Then the main-deck crew moved as one man to the stern of the ship, feet spread slightly against the gentle roll of the deck, hands shading their narrowed eyes as they carefully swept the straight line where the sky met the sea. There was no sail—nothing but the flat horizon.

Captain James Barron, United States Navy, tall, angular, long face, jutting chin, feet and hands too big, stood at his place on the quarterdeck next to the wheel, facing the stern, one huge hand shading his squinted eyes as he peered northeast. Beside him stood his first officer, Lieutenant George Budd, shorter, strongly built, both hands shading his slitted eyes as he studied the skyline, searching for the tell-tale fleck that would become a ship. His lined, aging, leathery face bore a prominent scar across the meat of his left cheek where a British musket ball had ripped a four-inch channel in the wild, desperate fight on Chesapeake Bay in August of 1781, when the French and British navies had collided head-on to determine whether British general Charles Cornwallis and his six thousand red-coated regulars, landlocked and surrounded by thirteen thousand American regulars and French infantry at the tiny tobacco-trading village of Yorktown, where the York River empties into the Bay, would remain British soldiers, or become American prisoners of war.

Captain Barron turned his face upward and bellowed to his seaman in the crow’s nest, “Mister Yates, what flag?”

Every man stared upward, waiting for the answer that could well determine their fate and that of the USS Chesapeake.

Yates spread his feet to steady himself and raised his extended telescope to his eye. For ten seconds he remained silent, hunched forward, straining to define the flag popping in the wind at the top of the mainmast of the incoming ship.

“Can’t tell yet, sir.”

“Can you read her name?”

“No, sir.”

Barron licked dry lips. “Man-o’-war or merchantman?”

“Too far. Can’t be certain.”

“Keep a sharp eye. Call out when you know!”

“Aye, sir.”

They waited with tension building into a thing almost alive. Seamen came up from the second deck where the cannon were tied down behind closed gun ports, and from the third deck where their provisions and medicines and blankets were stored, along with a Holstein cow, half a dozen three-hundred-pound pigs, twenty chickens, and ten geese, for fresh meat and milk and eggs. The sailors came quietly and stood braced, straining to see the shape and build of the pursuing ship and the colors of her flag.

The tiny speck had broken the skyline just as Yates’s voice blasted from the crow’s nest.

“British! Union Jack. She’s British. And she’s a man-o’-war. Two decks of guns.”

Every man on deck sucked in air, and Captain Barron shouted, “Are her gunports open? Can you count them?”

“No, sir. They’re closed. Can’t count yet.”

“Her course?”

“Sou’ by sou’west, sir.”

“Her canvas?”

“All out. Full. Comin’ hard, sir.”

“Her name?”

“Can’t tell yet.”

Barron spoke quietly to Budd. “On that course, and with that speed, she means to close with us.”

Budd bobbed his head but said nothing, waiting.

Barron stared downward as he muttered, “Do we outrun her, or stand?” The question was for himself, not his first officer. Barron raised his head and turned to the wheelman. “Steady as she goes.” He shouted to his crew, gathered at the stern of the frigate. “Back to your duty posts. Follow the orders of the day. You men assigned to the gun crews, get your budge barrels open and both the solid shot and the grape ready for loading, and be prepared to roll your cannon into firing position, but do not open your gun ports until you get the order.” He cupped his hand to his mouth to shout up to the crow’s nest. “Keep us informed.”

“Aye, sir.”

Budd asked, “More canvas? The spankers? We can outrun her.”

Barron shook his head and a look of defiance crept into his eyes. “We are in a state of peace with the British. We will not run, and we will not be intimidated.”

Budd grunted and deep anger was in his voice. “A state of peace? You remember the incident last year? The British gunboat Leander? She followed an American merchantman into New York harbor and fired on her. Killed one American seaman. There were riots in the streets against the British. President Jefferson closed all American ports to the Leander. How many hundred of our merchantmen have the British stopped on the high seas and searched? How many embargoes against us at every port in the world? Some say we’re at war with England right now, only neither side has declared it.”

“I’ve forgotten none of it, Mister Budd,” Barron growled, “but I repeat, we will not run, and we will not be intimidated. You see to it that our gun crews are ready.”

A light came on in Budd’s gray eyes, and a faint smile appeared and passed. “Aye, sir.”

The crew took their orders and returned to their duties of the day, scrubbing decks on hands and knees, checking hawsers, opening the budge barrels mounted by each of the thirty-eight cannon to feel the black gunpowder for moisture, setting the stacked pyramids of 24-pound cannonballs and the wooden buckets of grapeshot—one inch lead balls—next to the heavy, shining black barrels of the cannon mounted on their carriages with the heavy wooden wheels, loosening the locks on the gun ports to open them instantly on command. Their heads were constantly turning to peer northeast, silent, waiting, while the wind moved their tied-back hair and their beards.

Every man flinched when the shout boomed down from the crow’s nest.

“Her name is the Leopard. About forty-five or fifty guns and the gun crews are ready. Holding steady sou’ by sou’west and moving hard. She means to come alongside.”

The man at the wheel glanced at Captain Barron, waiting for any change in his orders, and there was none. He held his course, nearly due south while twelve miles to the west the capes of Virginia were steadily slipping past as the small frigate plowed on. The shiny little frigate had been refitted through the winter months of 1806 into 1807 and returned to duty as a a United States Navy warship only days before Captain Barron and his crew of seasoned American sailors were assigned to take her to sea on her shake-down voyage. They had brought her out of the Chesapeake into the great ocean thirty-six hours earlier, and turned her south toward the Carolinas, silently watching for tell-tale moisture on the inner hull, aware of how sensitive the small vessel was to the wheel, how she felt as she rose and fell with the swells of the ocean, how her masts creaked in the nor’east wind coming in from behind. They watched through the night, and with the morning sun half risen, they knew. She was a tight ship, responsive, balanced, masts set solid in the keel, and she answered the wheel as though she were a thing alive. In the way of men of the sea they said little, but there were faint smiles, and an occasional snatch of a sea shanty as a sailor broke into discordant song. By midmorning the small craft had become theirs. No longer “it.” “She.”

With each passing minute the oncoming British warship was closing. At one mile there was no mistaking the red, white, and blue cross of the Union Jack. At one thousand yards, the gun ports remained closed, but the count was clear. The Leopard carried fifty heavy cannon, divided evenly, port and starboard. The Chesapeake, smaller, carried thirty-eight guns, evenly divided, port and starboard sides. The American ship was out-gunned.

With the British man-of-war a scant four hundred yards off the port stern, the crew of the Chesapeake were at their duty posts, but they were glancing to their own quarter-deck, silently asking Captain Barron his intentions. All too well they understood the sneering arrogance of the British and the price the American navy and American merchantmen were paying every day because President Thomas Jefferson refused to rupture the fragile peace that existed between the two countries. Terms of peace written on a parchment scroll meant very little to them when the brutal reality included search and seizure on the high seas by British warships with cannon-muzzles less than ten feet away, ready and anxious to blast a ship and crew into shreds.

Barron understood the need of his crew to know what was going to happen in the next five minutes and called out, “Steady as she goes, lads. Steady as she goes. We’ll know soon enough.”

At one hundred yards the larger ship held her course and Budd moved his feet, preparing for the collision if neither ship yielded. At fifty yards the American crew was staring across the narrowing neck of water that separated the two vessels into the expressionless faces of British seamen standing at their guns. At thirty yards the captain of the British ship corrected course to run parallel to the smaller American ship. He raised his horn and his voice came loud.

“Ahoy the Chesapeake! I am Captain Salusbury Humphreys of the Royal Navy and commander of His Majesty’s, the Leopard. Furl your sails and drop anchor. I hold orders from Admiral Sir George C. Berkeley of the Royal Navy, directing me to search your vessel for deserters from His Majesty’s Navy.”

Barron looked at Budd, dumbstruck, then raised his horn to shout back, “Admiral Berkeley ordered you to find this ship and send a boarding party?”

“Orders issued June 1, 1807. I have them in my hand. I will board your ship.”

“To search for what?”

“British deserters who have been impressed into service in your navy.”

Budd blurted, “We haven’t got a British seaman in our entire crew! We’re all Americans.”

Barron raised his horn. “We have no British seamen aboard. Permission to board is denied.”

The railings between the two ships were less than thirty feet apart. Seamen on both ships were staring at each other, and each knew the other was preparing to open their gun ports and ram their cannon forward. Sailors on both sides were picking the place they would place their first shot.

Humphreys’ answer came back from the larger vessel. “For the last time, pursuant to my orders, I demand you stand down and permit a boarding party to search the Chesapeake for British deserters. I will not repeat the demand again.”

Barron bellowed back his defiant answer. “Permission to board is denied!”

Instantly the gun ports on the British man-of-war yawed open and the muzzles of the big guns were driven forward. In that moment Budd screamed, “Open the gun ports and fire!” The American gun ports were half-opened when the deafening blast of twenty-five heavy British cannon thundered. The narrow strip of water separating the two ships was filled with billowing white smoke as the concussion wave rolled over the smaller ship. Solid shot smashed into the American gun ports, and grapeshot shattered railings and knocked American gun crews backwards, bloodied, stumbling, falling.

Both Barron and Budd immediately understood that the British had come broadside to them with the British crew already prepared to deliver the deadly broadside on a silent signal, and that signal had been the second time Barron refused the British demand for boarding. The British captain had never given the vocal order to fire, and the trickery gave the British gun crews a two-second advantage that had all but destroyed the American guns before they could fire. There was not one American gun on the port side of the Chesapeake left in operation. Barron’s shouted orders were lost in the pandemonium of his bloodied crew trying to recover while British seamen prepared to cast grappling hooks and reload their guns, and then, unbelievably, they fired a second broadside into the smaller ship. Shattered timbers and railings flew, and more Americans staggered back as the British gunners loaded and fired a third broadside. The main deck of the Chesapeake was littered with smashed timbers and railings, and the lower sections of the rigging were shredded where grapeshot had come ripping. Hawsers dangled from the rigging, useless, blowing in the wind. Barron’s face was covered with blood from two splinters of wood that had embedded in his chin and forehead, and he was desperately wiping with his sleeve to clear the gore from his eyes.

The British captain shouted orders, and the Leopard veered hard to starboard, and the two vessels slammed together. Twenty grappling hooks came arcing to catch on broken hatches or splintered wreckage, and within seconds the two moving ships were tied together. With muskets and swords in hand, British seamen leaped to the deck of the Chesapeake, shouting, driving the stunned American crew back into a circle where they held them at bayonet point amidst the jumbled litter and wounded, groaning men on the main deck of a crippled ship. The ship’s surgeon, short, stout, perspiring, was moving feverishly among the wounded with his black bag, jaw muscles tight, face set, as he surveyed the torn flesh and broken bones.

With drawn sword the British captain came forward to face the bleeding Barron.

“Sir, I am going to find any British sailors you have impressed on this vessel.”

Barron was nearly beyond control in his outrage. “A demand to board a ship of the American navy on the high seas! The United States is neutral! We are at peace with England! How dare you? How dare you!”

The British officer calmly raised a paper. “I have my orders.”

“Does the name Chesapeake appear in those orders?”

“It does.”

“You were ordered to board this ship, specifically? By name?”

“Specifically, by name. We watched her while she was being built and commissioned and launched. It was clear we had need to determine if the United States intended manning her with British sailors.”

Blood was streaming from Barron’s face, but he paid no heed. His voice was high, near hysteria. “You’ve committed half a dozen acts in breach of the treaty between the United States and England! You’ve broken every rule of civilized nations. Three unprovoked point-blank broadsides without warning! Worse than pirates! Scum! There will be a reckoning, sir.”

A look of irritation crossed the face of the British captain. “As you wish.” He turned to his first officer. “Search the ship.”

“Aye, sir.” The first officer gave a hand signal, and ten men who had been picked hours earlier stepped forward. There was a stir among the American seamen circled by the bayonets, and instantly twenty British muskets came onto full cock. Captain Barron raised a hand, and his men settled. With the first officer leading, the ten British seamen with muskets disappeared below decks, while those remaining stood their ground with their muskets at the ready, silently facing the furious Americans while the ship’s surgeon continued his work among the wounded. The only sounds were of the wind in the rigging and the creaking of two ships tied together and the wrenching groans of men in pain.

In less than ten minutes the British search party came up the narrow passage into the sunlight on the main deck, with the first officer prodding four seamen with the flat of his sword. His squad of ten herded the grim Americans before the British captain, and the first officer reported.

“Sir, these men were among the gun crews on the second deck. I believe they are British seamen.”

The British captain moved, stopping before each of them in turn while he studied their faces, their long hair, their beards, their uniforms. His forehead wrinkled in thought, his mouth puckered for a moment before he spoke.

“They are British seamen. We will take them.”

Budd spun to face Captain Barron, arm raised, pointing. “Sir, three of those men are native-born Americans. Connecticut and Massachusetts. I’ve shipped with them before!”

Budd turned to face the British captain. “You know these men are not British. You aren’t here to search for missing seamen. You’re here to insult the United States Navy!” Budd was beyond any semblance of established international naval protocol toward officers of a foreign navy, and he didn’t care. His finger was thrust nearly into the face of the British captain, voice shrill, echoing out across the water. “You expect us to take this infamy from you just because you’re British? We beat you once, and by the Almighty, we’ll do it again if we have to! Mark my words, Captain. Carry them back to your Admiral Berkeley. Tell him. We beat him once. We’ll do it again if you drive us to it! Do you hear me?”

Budd turned back to Barron. “On your orders, sir, we will retake our ship! Say the words.”

For one brief second every American who was still on his feet turned to Captain Barron, and he saw the hot defiance in their eyes. British redcoats glanced at their captain, suddenly nervous, apprehensive. No matter the cost, the Americans were ready to reclaim their ship. Barron made his decision and spoke to Budd.

“No. We will give no excuse. We will remain blameless. These men have committed an act of war, and I want the record to show that we gave no provocation. Not before they opened fire, and not after they boarded. They alone will bear the blame for what has happened here.” He paused for a moment before he faced the British captain squarely and concluded. “But I will say that under other circumstances, my orders would be otherwise! And I repeat, there will be a reckoning!”

Every man on deck flinched at the shout from the British crow’s nest. “Sail ho! Due south. About two miles.”

The British captain called, “How many?”

“Only one so far.”

“Course?”

“Due north, sir. Straight at us. She’s seen us.”

“What flag?”

There was a pause as the sailor peered through his telescope. “Not yet certain but I think American.”

“Man-o’-war or merchantman?”

“Riding deep. Built broad. Heavy. Tacking into the wind, and she’s a bit slow, sir. I’d say merchantman, loaded, sir.”

“Her name?”

“Can’t make it out yet, sir.”

“Keep us advised.”

“Aye, sir.”

Barron thrust his face forward, eyes blazing. “You intend boarding that merchantman?”

The British captain shook his head. “Our orders are limited to the Chesapeake. We have what we came for.” He turned to his first officer. “Take the four men back to the Leopard and get them below decks. Put them in chains if you have to. I’ll follow with the remainder of our men and we’ll be on our way.”

“Aye, sir.”

The four American sailors were forced onto the deck of the British gunship at bayonet point, glancing at Captain Barron and then the crew of the American ship, white-faced with rage. They disappeared below decks, and within minutes the first officer emerged back into the sunlight.

“All secure here, sir.”

Minutes later the last of the hawsers lashing the two ships were loosened, the grappling hooks released, and immediately a swath of foaming Atlantic sea-water widened between them. On command, the British man-of-war turned hard to port and began the slow, tricky procedure of tacking back and into the wind, making her way north from whence she had come.

Captain Barron turned to Budd. “Start clearing away the wreckage and making repairs. Get a report damage immediately. Watch that incoming ship. Keep me advised on her whereabouts.”

“Aye, sir.”

Barron called to the ship’s surgeon, “Doctor Samuels, I need a casualty count as soon as possible.”

Samuels nodded, but remained silent as he continued working with a tourniquet and bandages to stop the flow of blood pulsing from the wrist of a pasty-faced seaman whose left hand was gone. He spoke without looking at Barron.

“Sir, I’ll tend your wounds in a moment.”

Barron replied, “See to the crew. My wounds are not serious.”

Samuels rose and walked among the dead and wounded, counting, appraising, ordering others to carry them below decks out of the blazing sun, while Budd walked the portside of the frigate, eyes constantly moving, then disappeared below decks for three minutes. When he reappeared he approached Barron, Samuels by his side. The captain was still standing on the quarterdeck wiping at the blood on his tunic, trying to stanch the bleeding from his forehead. Barron leaned forward to address the doctor.

“Casualties?”

There was a cutting edge in the surgeon’s voice. “Three dead. Eighteen wounded. Some serious. We may lose one or two more.” Samuels watched the muscles in Barron’s jaw flex and then release. Barron turned to Budd.

“Damage?”

“Hulled twice. High. We are not taking on water. Eight of the guns on the port side are out of commission—carriages destroyed. The other two are being repaired. All guns on the starboard side are operable. Some loss of sail and hawsers and damage to the mainmast, but not serious. We’re seaworthy.”

Barron turned his face upward toward the crow’s nest. “Mister Yates! The incoming ship?”

“American,” came the call. “Merchantman. She’ll be alongside within ten minutes.”

Barron peered at the broad sails for a moment, studying the ship as it came on, tacking into the wind, then spoke to the two men before him.

“Carry on. We’ll deal with whoever that is when they reach us.” He turned to the wheelman. “Hard to starboard and bring her about to due north. We’re returning to Norfolk.”

The sturdy little frigate answered the wheel, and her two masts leaned left as she turned hard right while the sailors nimbly climbed the ropes to the spars to begin the intricate shifting of the sails to tack a course due north, into the wind.

They were on course when the call came from the crow’s nest. “The ship behind us is the Camille. Merchantman out of Boston harbor. I recognize her. She means to come alongside.”

Captain Barron cupped his hands to call to his men in the rigging. “Reduce sail. Let her come alongside!”

The crews of both ships watched in silence as the little warship slowed, and the larger merchantman labored up to within fifty yards of her portside with the crew of the Camille studying the shattered railing and torn canvas on the lower sails, flapping in the wind. The captain took his horn in hand and made the call.

“Ahoy, Chesapeake. I am Captain Adam Dunson of the Camille. Merchantman out of Boston. We heard cannon. We saw the British man-o’-war withdraw. Are you sound?”

Barron answered. “We’re sound.”

“We see the damage. Do you have dead or wounded?”

“We do.”

“Seek permission to board. We have a ship’s surgeon and medicine. Seamen if you need them.”

Barron looked at Samuels, who nodded, and Barron answered through his horn. “Permission to board granted.”

Carefully the two ships maneuvered until they touched, and men on both sides lashed them together. Captain Adam Dunson led his boarding party onto the splintered deck of the Chesapeake, stepping over and around the wreckage that still remained, and he read the tell-tale signs as though they were a written page. Dunson was middle-aged, just under six feet in height, solidly built, with dark, intense eyes, square jaw, regular features. He fronted Captain Barron and bowed slightly from the hip.

“I am Captain Adam Dunson. May we be of service, sir?”

“I am Captain James Barron. Your home port, sir?”

“Boston. Dunson and Weems.”

Barron reflected for a moment. “Matthew Dunson?”

“Yes. My older brother. He and Billy Weems own the company.”

“I know of your company. Would you permit us the services of your ship’s surgeon?”

Dunson turned and gave a hand signal, and a sparse, gray-haired man stepped forward. In his face one could see forty years on the sea and countless sea battles in which he had treated unknown numbers of injured sailors. He took two steps toward Samuels and said, “Where should I start, sir?” He followed the blood-spattered doctor to a hatch, and they disappeared into the hold of the ship.

Dunson spoke to Barron. “May I inquire what was the occasion that caused the damage?”

“The British ship was a man-o’-war named the Leopard. She demanded to board to search for British deserters. We had none on board. When I refused the demand, she opened fire without provocation or warning. Three broadsides.”

Barron saw the anger rise in Dunson as he inquired. “Dead? Wounded?”

“Three dead so far. Near twenty wounded. They took four of my crew. Three native-born Americans. I do not know about the fourth man.”

“You are short seven of your crew and have others disabled? I have seasoned sailors who we can spare. Would that be of help?”

Budd looked at his captain, and the need was clear in his eyes.

Barron nodded. “It would. We could use up to ten men if you can spare them.”

Dunson turned to his first officer. “Can you see to it?”

“Aye, sir.” The man spun on his heel and quickly returned to the deck of his own ship to begin pointing at men who nodded.

Dunson continued. “What port do you intend making?”

“Norfolk. The nearest one with a hospital. The wounded need a hospital.”

Dunson nodded. “Two days from here, if this nor’east wind holds. May we accompany you? I can get my crew back when you’re docked.”

“It will cost you three days.”

Dunson raised a hand as though to brush off the concern. “No matter.”

Barron replied, “Your help would be appreciated.”

Dunson glanced about. “Would some of your crew care to take mess with us this evening?”

“How many?”

“All, if necessary.”

“Could you prepare strong broth for the wounded?”

“We can, sir. Is there anything else?”

Barron’s eyes narrowed, and his words came measured, clipped. “Yes, Captain Dunson, there is. Could you have one of your officers inspect this ship for all damage? All of it. Get the names of the dead and wounded and the names of the four men the British took. When your inspection is complete, have that man write what he has seen. Have it witnessed by yourself and your first officer. I want that document as evidence of this incident. It is my intention to call the British to account for taking my men, and for the murder and the unprovoked attack on the high seas on a ship of a neutral nation with which the British were not at war. If you could provide that to me, I would be most grateful.”

Dunson turned, gave a hand signal, and a younger man stepped to his side, waiting. He was slightly taller and more slender than Adam Dunson, but with the same intensity in his dark eyes. His face tended to be heart-shaped, features regular and strong.

Dunson gestured. “This is our navigator. John Matthew Dunson. My nephew. Does well with writing. I will have your document ready for you when we leave you in Norfolk.”

“Thank you.”

Dunson looked about at the shattered, splintered timbers and the litter on the bloodied deck, and took a deep breath. “Captain Barron, if there is nothing else pressing at this moment, there is much for both of our crews to do. Shall we be about it?”

Notes

On June 22, 1807, off the Virginia capes, the captain of the British man-of-war HMS Leopard, Salusbury Humphreys, ordered the American warship USS Chesapeake to stop while the British boarded her to search for British seamen reportedly being held by the Chesapeake. The British captain was acting on written orders of Admiral George C. Berkeley. The Chesapeake was a newly built frigate and was on her maiden voyage, out through Chesapeake Bay into the Atlantic. The American captain, James Barron, refused to obey the order. The British ship carried fifty cannon, the American ship, thirty-eight. At that time America and England were officially at peace, and the American ship was neutral; thus, the order by the British admiral and the British captain was illegal and unprecedented. Nonetheless, upon Barron’s refusal, and without warning, the British gunboat delivered three broadsides at point-blank range and badly damaged the ship, killing three American seamen and injuring eighteen others, including Captain Barron. Then the British forcibly boarded the crippled American ship and removed four seamen. Three were Americans. The incident infuriated the United States and later became one of the pivotal reasons for America’s declaration of war against the British on June 19, 1812.

The historical accounts of this incident are not all consistent, with some differences in the details; however, the essence of the matter is as above set forth and as presented in this chapter.

Bernstein, Thomas Jefferson, pp. 166–7; Malcomson, Lords of the Lake, pp. 12–13; Whitehorne, The Battle for Baltimore, 1814, pp. 5–6.

For the detail of the incident wherein the British gunboat Leander pursued an American merchantman into New York harbor and fired at her, killing at least one American seaman and wounding others, which resulted in President Jefferson’s banning the HMS Leander from all American ports, see Whitehorne, The Battle for Baltimore, 1814, p. 5.

The merchantman Camille and the parts played by Adam Dunson and John Dunson are fictional.