Commanding the Constitution was nowhere in my consciousness on that spring day in 1974 when I answered my phone. It was my detailer. “How would you like to command ‘Old Ironsides’?” he inquired. I asked for a repeat. He said I had been recommended for the duty. After learning that the Constitution was then completing the docking phase of a major restoration and was being readied for the national bicentennial—no dullsville there, I thought—I agreed.
Change of command was belowdecks, away from the shipwrights busy topside and where the space was such that I had to stand stooped to address the onlookers instead of the beam overhead. The ship quickly taught me humility.
My first task was to learn an entirely new vocabulary. Daunting at first, the arcane language of the 19th-century shipwright was something like a secret code, known only to the “in” group. I came to know what a beedle was, and a loggerhead, and a diagonal rider. And I located the well, the orlop, and the spirit locker. (For the definitions of these terms, read on.) I felt a little like a newly reported ensign and hardly qualified to be the boss. But the artisans enjoyed my confusion and respected my eager curiosity, and we soon were on the same harmonic.
While the ship was being refurbished, I had to think about the day, about six months away, when she again would be receiving visitors. It had been two years since she had done so, and no one in the crew could advise me as to what had gone before. One of the first tasks was to ensure that the incoming personnel (and the crew was to nearly double for the American bicentennial years) were the sort of people, psychologically and socially, who would be proper spokesmen for the Navy while dealing with daily exposure to hordes of people. Then there was the matter of guiding tours. A new script was written in such a way that it could “flex” in response to visitation load, and preparations were made to indoctrinate the crew.
My quarterly budget, aside from the restoration monies, was a mere $500. Fortunately, some commands had special accounts for dealing with the national bicentennial. To the ship’s benefit, the Navy Information Office, Boston, was one such command, and it made money available both to sew period uniforms for the entire crew and to print visitor handouts in several languages. The public affairs officer in charge and his photographer were so supportive they became part of the Constitution family.
When my schedule permitted, I would don my 1812 uniform and go aboard to become a part of the ambiance. Sometimes, I would sit in my after cabin, at the desk of the Constitution’s 1813-15 commander, Charles Stewart, and do paperwork, signing letters with a quill (with a ballpoint pen refill cartridge inserted in it). On other occasions, I would be on deck, apparently inspecting my command. One day, I was standing motionless near the mainmast, my mind just drifting as my eyes took in the crowd. A couple of ladies jostled by and were almost completely past when one suddenly turned and exclaimed: “My God! He’s alive!” We had a good laugh over her reaction.
The fact that everyone, whatever his or her status, was under my authority when on board was a point that rarely had to be made. But a Texas lawman-visitor, complete with his six-shooter, found out when he was required to leave the pistol with the quarterdeck watch. He acted as if he had been stripped naked. On several occasions, we had to evacuate the ship for what proved spurious bomb threats. During 1975, Boston was in the early throes of court-ordered school busing, and there was a local anti-busing group known as “Powder Keg.” We received rumors that j it intended to storm the ship and use her as a platform for their demands. The crew was organized to repel boarders (there were racks of boarding pikes around the fore- and mainmasts), but Powder Keg never appeared.
Two other emergencies remain strong memories. The first was a giant fire that consumed an entire block of old buildings not far from the ship. We were at the ready on board, of course, but it was great to see Boston’s whole fireboat fleet standing by us without having to be summoned. And in the winter of 1978, a great nor’easter blizzard hit the region, trapping me at home 25 miles from the Constitution. Senior Chief Boatswain’s Mate Walter R. Gross, the top man there, did a marvelous job of seeing to the ship’s safety amid wind-swollen tides and feet of snow and of finding the resources to provide food and drink to the civilian workers restoring the situation in the area.
For the Constitution, the climax of the bicentennial period came on successive days in July 1976. On Saturday the 10th, we went under tug power and led the tall ships parade into Boston. As we stood in, specially modified 24-pounder long guns fired minute by minute, announcing the sailing vessels’ arrival. The next day, with Secretary of the Navy J. William Middendorf II and the commandant of the First Naval District, Rear Admiral Roy D. Snyder, on board, we went out to greet the arriving royal yacht Britannia, bearing Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip.
That afternoon, we hosted the couple on board, giving them a surprise “three cheers for the queen” from the rigging as they departed. That evening, my wife, Mary, and I were among the guests on the yacht. The reception over, the Yanks stood on the quay as Britannia sailed for Canada. The royal couple came out and stood behind the screened lifelines, Her Majesty giving her well-known back-handed wave. Some of us happened to look below the lower edge of the screening and saw her kick off her shoes and wiggle her toes—relief after hours of events.
I commanded the Constitution for four years. I saw her at least five days of every seven and have walked aboard countless times. And yet even today, more than a quarter-century later, every time I salute the colors snapping at the gaff and step between the magnificent headboards framing the entry port I am overwhelmed by the presence of this ship. It is a mystical blending of the delicate symmetry of her spars and rigging reaching skyward, the squat ugly power inherent in her multitude of cannon, and the knowledge that great things stemmed from events occurring within the confines of this object of man’s creation, so small in the ocean’s expanse.
As if the ship herself were not enough continual inspiration, the general public who visit her provide still more. It’s marvelous to watch as they catch their first, full sight of her. The awe and wonder on their faces is so strong that if you, too, turn your attention to the ship—even on the darkest of days—you can see the sky brighten around her and hear the fanfare begin. This impression is genuine, so deep and so stirring. 1 can remember one couple telling me they had been planning their trip to the Constitution for 18 years! During 1976, she had an average of almost 2,500 visitors on every day of the year. They came from each state in the union and from all around the world.
And children are a special case. Really beautifully behaved despite the excitement of coming aboard, they see Old Ironsides and her world in their own special way. One young fellow told me, with authority: “It was my best field trip ever. Since I’ve moved three times, I’ve been on lots of field trips. One of my trips was to the battleship Massachusetts and that was my best field trip until you came along.” A girl, speaking of her tour, said, “the funniest part was the people had to shake the biscuits to get the worms out.” It was a boy named Daniel who pretty well summarized the many comments I’ve heard from youngsters: “Thank you for a wonderful tour. I especially like the cannons, rigging, anchor, and cannon balls. The names of the cannon were crazy. [He thought ‘Willful Murder’ was the best.] To sum it all up, Constitution is magnificent.” I’ll buy that, Daniel.
Some 19th-century shipwright terms
Beedle: large mallet used by caulkers; Loggerhead: iron ball on a long handle used to heat tar or pitch; Diagonal rider: diagonal rib in a warship; Well: apartment enclosed by bulkheads in the middle of the hold containing and protecting a ship's pumps; Orlop: lowest deck of a ship; Spirit locker: storage area for liquors.