Susan Whitney would be laying out instruments and pushing several of the midshipman’s trunks together to form a crude operating table. The gunner would be in the powder room hanging felt drapes all around and dousing them with water to suppress any sparks that might enter. He would have on felt slippers so he wouldn’t cause any sparks that in turn might cause the “explosion you’ll never hear.” Outside the room the ship’s boys—“powder monkeys” they were called—would be lined up to get measured charges in flannel bags from the gunner, place them in wooden boxes and race to the guns they were assigned to serve, then race back to pick up the next charge.
But, above all, the men ran to their gun stations—26 12-pounders on the main deck, four 6-pounders on the quarterdeck and two long-nines on the fo’c’sle—heaving, sweating and cursing until each gun was loaded and each gun captain could stand next to his piece, fist raised in the air, signaling that his gun was ready to fire.
They had all done it before—hundreds of times, in daylight and at night, in fair weather and foul, when feeling sick and feeling well. No thought whatsoever was required; and that was exactly what the officers wanted. In a matter of minutes, the ship and the men had transformed themselves into a single, unified, flesh and oak machine.
“Mr. Smith, away with you to the maintop. Take a glass and tell me immediately if any of those ships are starting to get underway.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Sidney Smith flew to the larboard side mainmast ratline, and starting scrambling up like he was being chased by an outraged husband. When he got to the maintop platform, he bypassed going through the lubbers hole, the easy entrance to the platform. Instead, he crawled out along the futtock shrouds, briefly hanging in a nearly upside down position, and swung up on the platform.
“On deck there,” he cried a few moments later.
“Deck, aye,” came the reply from the quarterdeck.
“I confirm 28 ships of the line with possibly a few more farther up. Definitely French, Sir. They’re in two groups. The smaller group’s in Lynnhaven Bay and the other’s strung out into the Chesapeake. I see three ships flying a broad pennant—three admirals. And... wait... yes... that one has to be the Ville de Paris —de Grasse’s flagship.”
“Do any of them seem to be getting underway to come meet us?”
“No, sir. The water’s alive with small craft ferrying supplies and men to the shore. Looks like they’re too busy to bother with the likes of us.
“Wait one,” Smith continued. There was dead silence on deck as everyone, officer and seaman alike, strained to hear the report. The men knew that what they were hearing could spell either continued life or death by nightfall for many if not all of them.
“There’s a sloop-of-war underway from Cape Henry and heading toward us. It’s probably the picket boat that should have intercepted us before we ever got in this far. And behind her is a frigate—no, two frigates—preparing to get underway”
“Very well, Mr. Smith. Stay up there and let me know if the situation changes in any way.”
“Mr. Rooney, as soon as we clear the middle ground I want you to plot a course due east. Stay on it until we can no longer see land or, more important, they can no longer see us.
Rooney cut the corner of the middle ground as close as he dared—and closer than the captain thought possible—and shot out into the Atlantic. The sloop pursued as far as the place where the Richmond had first spotted the fleet, and then turned back. The frigates never got underway at all.
Two hours later, the land had dropped below the horizon, and they were
But, above all, the men ran to their gun stations—26 12-pounders on the main deck, four 6-pounders on the quarterdeck and two long-nines on the fo’c’sle—heaving, sweating and cursing until each gun was loaded and each gun captain could stand next to his piece, fist raised in the air, signaling that his gun was ready to fire.
They had all done it before—hundreds of times, in daylight and at night, in fair weather and foul, when feeling sick and feeling well. No thought whatsoever was required; and that was exactly what the officers wanted. In a matter of minutes, the ship and the men had transformed themselves into a single, unified, flesh and oak machine.
“Mr. Smith, away with you to the maintop. Take a glass and tell me immediately if any of those ships are starting to get underway.”
“Aye, Sir.”
Sidney Smith flew to the larboard side mainmast ratline, and starting scrambling up like he was being chased by an outraged husband. When he got to the maintop platform, he bypassed going through the lubbers hole, the easy entrance to the platform. Instead, he crawled out along the futtock shrouds, briefly hanging in a nearly upside down position, and swung up on the platform.
“On deck there,” he cried a few moments later.
“Deck, aye,” came the reply from the quarterdeck.
“I confirm 28 ships of the line with possibly a few more farther up. Definitely French, Sir. They’re in two groups. The smaller group’s in Lynnhaven Bay and the other’s strung out into the Chesapeake. I see three ships flying a broad pennant—three admirals. And... wait... yes... that one has to be the Ville de Paris —de Grasse’s flagship.”
“Do any of them seem to be getting underway to come meet us?”
“No, sir. The water’s alive with small craft ferrying supplies and men to the shore. Looks like they’re too busy to bother with the likes of us.
“Wait one,” Smith continued. There was dead silence on deck as everyone, officer and seaman alike, strained to hear the report. The men knew that what they were hearing could spell either continued life or death by nightfall for many if not all of them.
“There’s a sloop-of-war underway from Cape Henry and heading toward us. It’s probably the picket boat that should have intercepted us before we ever got in this far. And behind her is a frigate—no, two frigates—preparing to get underway”
“Very well, Mr. Smith. Stay up there and let me know if the situation changes in any way.”
“Mr. Rooney, as soon as we clear the middle ground I want you to plot a course due east. Stay on it until we can no longer see land or, more important, they can no longer see us.
Rooney cut the corner of the middle ground as close as he dared—and closer than the captain thought possible—and shot out into the Atlantic. The sloop pursued as far as the place where the Richmond had first spotted the fleet, and then turned back. The frigates never got underway at all.
Two hours later, the land had dropped below the horizon, and they were
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