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gig, sir?”
    â€œYes, do, Mr. Wadsworth. I’m going below. You may arrange shore leave for the men in two shifts. Later today I plan to have my first look around town. You’re welcome to join me if you’re so inclined.”
    â€œI’d be delighted, Mr. Cutler. Thank you.”
    When Richard reemerged on deck, he looked every bit the prosperous merchant in buff-colored knee-length trousers, stockings, and waistcoat, and a pure white cotton shirt and linen neck stock. The pale green sea coat he wore over this ensemble added an extra layer of warmth against the morning chill, and a black ribbon kept his shoulder-length blond hair tidy under a beaver-felt tricorne hat. Without fanfare he climbed down a boarding ladder into the waiting gig and took position on the after thwart. Two oarsmen on the starboard side eased off from
the sloop’s hull as the two on the larboard side backed oars to turn the gig about.
    â€œGood luck, Mr. Cutler,” a crewman named Avery called out from the sloop. His hail was taken up by others.
    Richard shifted in the stern sheets to turn his head aft. “Thank you, lads,” he called back. He raised his hat high in salute, then brought his gaze back to the ship lying directly ahead, made even more majestic by his perspective at sea level. She now seemed the mightiest of sea creatures contemplating with disinterest the tiniest of water bugs.
    The gig coasted in aft of Constellation , toward a ladder leading up from the waterline to the wooden platform. As Richard clambered up the ladder, he glanced over at the plain glass windows on the frigate’s stern. He saw no ornately carved balconies or large tortoiseshell glass windows as he had seen on many European men-of-war and on Bonhomme Richard . This frigate, he mused, was not built to coddle her officers.
    When he reached the top rung of the ladder, he cupped a hand at his mouth. “Shove off, lads,” he shouted down to the gig. “I’ll find my way back or signal to be picked up.”
    No one was there to greet Richard. Nor did anyone pay him much attention as he slowly strolled along the quay beside the frigate. He could hear activity on board her and saw plenty of it in the vast shipyard beyond, with its clusters of mast and boat sheds, joiner’s and blacksmith’s shops, lofts housing sawyers, sail-makers, coopers, rope-makers, woodcarvers, and glaziers. Closer to him, not far from where he was at the moment, he noted several of the ship’s spars submerged in a shallow, man-made pond, being properly seasoned before they were hoisted on board ship and stepped into place. He noted, too, the line of square gun ports cut out of her hull, the ports themselves raised up on their tricing tackle to allow free flow of air across the gun deck. That the square holes were void of black muzzles came as no surprise to him. He knew of only two foundries capable of manufacturing naval cannon within the sixteen states that now constituted the United States.
    Unchallenged at the entry port, Richard walked up Constellation’ s long gangway and stepped onto her weather deck. There he found a tall, stocky man dressed casually in olive-colored breeches, silver-buckled shoes, and a heavy knitted jersey. His back to Richard, he was talking in animated tones to two others, shipyard workers, presumably, and judging by the way he kept jabbing his finger at them, he was none too pleased with whatever it was they were discussing. Richard held
back until the two men had been summarily dismissed and the older man wheeled around with a look of disgust.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” Richard said, approaching him. “Can you tell me if Captain Truxtun is on board? And if so, where I might find him?”
    The man stopped short and regarded Richard with a wary eye. “Who inquires?”
    â€œMy name is Richard Cutler, sir. I have come to Baltimore from Boston at Captain Truxtun’s request.”
    The