George Gibbs
Pike & Cutlass: Hero Tales of Our Navy

NOTE

The writer expresses thanks for their courtesy to the editors of “Lippincott’s Magazine” and the editors of the “Saturday Evening Post,” of Philadelphia, in which periodicals several of these Hero Tales have been printed. He also acknowledges his indebtedness for many valuable historical facts to “Cooper’s Naval History;” “History of the Navy,” by Edgar S. Maclay; “History of Our Navy,” by John R. Spears; “Twelve Naval Captains,” by Molly Elliot Seawell; “American Naval Heroes,” by John Howard Brown; “Naval Actions of the War of 1812,” by James Barnes; and to many valuable works and papers in the archives of the Library of the Navy Department at Washington. Thanks are due the Art Department of the “Saturday Evening Post” and the Art Department of “Collier’s Weekly” for their permission to reprint many of the drawings herein.

GEORGE GIBBS.

August 15, 1899.

THE EFFRONTERY OF PAUL JONES

In April, 1778, there were more than two-score of French ships-of-the-line within easy sailing distance of the coast of England. They were tremendous three-decked monsters, armed with tier upon tier of cannon, and it took nearly a thousand officers and men to man each of them. They lay at anchor in the harbors of France or sallied forth into the open sea to the southward to prey upon the commerce of Great Britain. But grand as they were, not one of them dared to do what John Paul Jones did in the little Continental sloop of war “Ranger.” By good seamanship, an element of chance, and a reckless daring almost without precedent, he accomplished under the very noses of the gold-laced French admirals what they had been hemming and hawing about since the beginning of the war.

Inaction weighed upon the mind of Paul Jones more heavily than the hardest of labor. He had to be up and doing all the time, or trouble was brewing for everybody on shipboard. So when he reached Nantes, France, and found that the frigate which had been promised him was not forthcoming, he determined, alone and unaided, to do with the little “Ranger” what he was not yet destined to do with a bigger ship. No person but Paul Jones would for a moment have considered such a desperate project as the one he conceived. What the flower of the navy and chivalry of France had refused to attempt was little short of suicide for the mad American. But Jones was not cast in an ordinary mould. When he got to Brest, he made up his mind once and for all, by one good fire of British shipping to put an end to all the ship and town burnings in America.

There was clanking of bit and chain as the anchor was hove up short on the little craft. The officers and men of the great vessels of the French fleet looked over the glistening water, warmed by the afternoon sun of spring, and wondered where their impetuous harbor-mate was off to. A week before, they knew Paul Jones had demanded that the French Admiral salute the Continental flag which the “Ranger” wore for the first time. And they had given those salutes right willingly, acknowledging publicly the nation they had been helping in secret. They knew he was a man of determination, and they wondered what the American was going to do. Some of them – the younger ones – wished they too were aboard the dainty little craft, bound out to sea under a man who feared nothing and dared everything. They heard the whistles and hoarse calls of the bos’n as the men tumbled down from aloft, the sheets flew home, and yards went up to their blocks with a clatter and a rush that showed how willing were the hands at the tackles. The tops’ls caught a fine breeze from the southward and, bracing up, the “Ranger” flew down the harbor and around the point of Quiberon just as the sun was setting behind the purple cloud-streaks along the line of limitless ocean. Up the coast she moved, her bowsprit pointing fearlessly to the north, where lay the Scilly Isles. The Frenchmen left behind in the harbor looked enviously at the patch of gold, growing every moment more indistinct in the fading light, and said “En voilà un brave!”

The next day Jones left the Scilly Isles on his starboard quarter and steered boldly up Saint George’s Channel into the wide Irish Sea. The merchantmen he boarded and captured or scuttled did not quite know what to make of a man who feared so little that he looked into the eyes of the lion sternly and even menacingly when one movement might have destroyed him. These channel-men thought themselves secure, for such a venturesome procedure as that of Paul Jones was contrary to all precedent. They couldn’t understand it at all until their vessels were burned and they themselves were prisoners. Then they knew that they had been taken by a man whose daring far surpassed that of the naval captains of England and France. In plain sight of land he took a brig bound from Ireland to Ostend. He didn’t want to be bothered with prisoners, so he sent her crew ashore in their own boat to tell the story of their escape. Then off Dublin he took another ship, the “Lord Chatham,” and sent her in charge of a prize-crew down to Brest.

Paul Jones had one great advantage. Nowadays, when the railway and telegraph have brought all the people of the world closer together, such a cruise would be impossible. The report would be sent at once to the Admiralty, and two fleets, if necessary, would be despatched post-haste to intercept him. But Paul Jones knew the value of the unexpected. And although fortune favors the brave and the winds and waves seem always on the side of the ablest navigators, he had made his calculations carefully. He knew that unless an English fleet was at some point nearer than Portsmouth he would have ample time to carry out his plans.

He made up his mind before burning any shipping to capture, if possible, the Earl of Selkirk, who lived on St. Mary’s Isle, and to hold him as a hostage. By this means he hoped to compel England to treat American prisoners with humanity, according to the laws of war. But on the twenty-first of April he picked up a fisherman who gave him information which for the moment drove all thought of the Earl of Selkirk and the shipping from his mind. Inside the harbor of Carrickfergus, where Belfast is, lay a man-of-war of twenty guns, the “Drake,” a large ship, with more men than the “Ranger” carried. He would drop down alongside of her under cover of the night and board her before her crew could tumble out of their hammocks. Such an attempt in a fortified harbor of the enemy would not have occurred to most men, but Paul Jones believed in achieving the impossible. He waited until nightfall, and then, with a wind freshening almost to a gale, sped up the harbor. The “Drake” lay well out in the roadstead, her anchor lights only marking her position in the blackness of the night. Carefully watching his time, Captain Jones stood forward looking at the lights that showed how she swung to the tide. He kept full headway on the “Ranger,” until she could swing up into the wind almost under the jib-boom of the Englishman. By dropping his anchor across the chain of the “Drake” he hoped to swing down alongside, grapple, and board before the crew were fairly awake.

But this time he was destined to fail. Everything depended on the dropping of the anchor at the proper time. His orders were not obeyed, for not until the “Ranger” had drifted clear of the Englishman’s chain did the splash come. Then it was too late. Fortunately the watch on the “Drake” were not suspicious. Had they been wider awake they would have had the “Ranger” at their mercy, and Paul Jones might not have survived to fight them a few days later. As it was, they only swore at the stupidity of the Irish lubber they thought he was. Jones knew that his chance was gone, and as soon as a strain came on the cable it was cut, and he filled away to sea again.

He now returned to his original plan of burning the shipping of some important town. He decided on Whitehaven as his first objective point, and the “Ranger,” sailing leisurely over, dropped anchor in the outer harbor during the following night.

Whitehaven was a town of considerable importance in the Scottish and North of England shipping trade. The inhabitants were for the greater part sailors and others who made their living by the sea, and there was never a time when the docks were not crowded with vessels, of all countries, from the sloop to the full-rigged ship, discharging or taking on cargoes which figured largely in England’s commerce. At one side of the harbor lay the town, and farther around to the left lay the docks where the shipping was. Over two hundred vessels, large and small, lay there or out in the roadstead. Two forts, mounting fifteen guns each, guarded the town. They were adequately garrisoned, and it looked like a piece of desperate folly to make the attempt upon a town directly under their guns.

Paul Jones knew Whitehaven from his childhood. He remembered just where the guard-houses were to be found, and knew how to force the entrance to the barracks. By three o’clock in the morning he was ready to make the assault. Two cutters with fifteen men in each, armed with cutlasses and pistols, were all he took to do the work. With thirty men he went fearlessly and confidently to intimidate the soldiers, spike the guns in the forts, overawe the town, and burn the shipping! Lieutenant Wallingford was given command of one of the cutters. His mission was to burn the shipping to the left. The other cutter Paul Jones commanded himself, and assumed the more hazardous duty of holding with his fifteen men the forts and the town, until such a blaze should illumine the morning sky that all England would know that the burning of Portland, Maine, was avenged.

Quietly they pulled up towards the great stone dock, where the shipping-houses were. The tide was very low as they moved past the schooners and brigs in the harbor, many of them careened far over on their sides, waiting for a rise in the tide to pull down to more comfortable moorings. But the boats went by without challenge or notice, and Wallingford’s cutter had slipped away like a gray shadow in the darkness. The first violet streaks of dawn were just beginning to throw the shore-line to the east in hazy silhouette when they reached the landing-place.

The dawn was coming up quickly now, and Paul Jones led his fifteen men at a run to the nearest fort. With cutlass in one hand and pistol in the other, they dashed upon the first sentry. There was no time for stealth, so they bore him down by sheer weight. The next one saw them coming, but Jones locked him and the rest of them in the guard-house. Then he proceeded to spike the guns. So quick was the work that not a shot was fired. They were running towards the second fort before the soldiers were quite sure what had happened. Even then they were too terrified to follow in pursuit. As the gallant band ran towards the other fort they got a clear view of the harbor, a glimmering sheet of orange and violet, under the morning glow. But strain his eyes as he might, their captain could get no sign of Wallingford or his work. They dashed as desperately at this fort as at the other and were equally successful, intimidating the garrison and spiking every gun they could find.

But what could be the trouble with Wallingford? Still seeing no blaze or even spark among the shipping to the eastward, Paul Jones felt that the main object of his descent upon the town was to prove a failure. So he dashed down the street from the fort towards the dock, pistol in hand, followed by his crew, who rolled along grinning at the ease with which they had accomplished their work. One of them had a bad cut over the head and the blood was staining his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to mind it in the least. To their surprise as they passed the houses the people began coming out of their doors shaking their fists at and cursing them. They grinned no longer, for they knew that some one had betrayed them. Jones looked around for the fifteenth man. The fellow with the cut wiped some blood from his cheek and said, —

“Dave Freeman, sir, he’s gone!”

Freeman was the traitor, then.

But there was no time for parley or revenge. The mob was collecting in the street they had left and soon would be down on the dock. Though Wallingford failed, Paul Jones would not. He dashed into a house on the dock, and seizing a burning brand went aboard one of the largest vessels of the fleet. He hastily pulled together some straw and hatchway gratings and soon had a roaring blaze. Then one of his men spilled a barrel of tar in the midst of it to make the destruction more sure.

He had been so intent upon his work that he had not noticed the mob that had gathered on the dock. The place seemed black with people, and their number was increasing every minute. Then, leaving the work of destruction to the others, he went down alone to face fifteen hundred infuriated people with a single flint-lock pistol! Dave Freeman had done his work well, for they seemed to pour from every street and doorway. But Paul Jones was determined that the work should be finished, and took a position where he could command the boat-landing and retreat of his men. The people came down in a body to within twenty paces of Paul Jones and then – stopped. There was something in the look of the man and the menacing black barrel that moved from one to the other that made them quail and fall over each other to get out of range. Those in the background swore and pushed gallantly, but the front rank was a line of straw, and Paul Jones moved it with his old flint-lock as though a Biscay wind-squall was striking it. For fifteen minutes and longer he stood there, immovable, the master of the situation, the picture of the intimidating power of one resolute man over a mob. Such another instance is hardly to be found in history.

When the black smoke rolled up from half a dozen vessels of the fleet, Paul Jones’s crew retreated in an orderly manner to the cutter. Jones walked down the steps into the boat, covering the crowd the while. Then his men leisurely rowed away, not a shot having been fired. It was not until the cutter was well out into the bay that some of the bewildered soldiers recovered sufficiently to load two cannon that Paul Jones had overlooked. These they brought to bear upon the cutter dancing down in the sunrise towards the “Ranger” and fired. The shot whistled wide of the mark, and Jones, to show his contempt of such long-range courage, fired only his pistol in return.

But that was not the end of this remarkable cruise. Having failed to find the Earl of Selkirk on St. Mary’s Isle, Paul Jones squared away to the southward, hoping to pick up another full-rigged ship off Dublin or to meet with the “Drake” again. He knew that by this time the Admiralty was well informed as to his whereabouts, and that before many hours had passed he would be obliged to run the gauntlet of a whole line of British fire. But he hated to be beaten at anything, and since the night when he failed to grapple her had been burning to try conclusions yard-arm to yard-arm with the “Drake.”

On the twenty-fourth of April, just two weeks after sailing from the harbor of Brest, he hove to off the Lough of Belfast, where within the harbor he could plainly see the tall spars of the Englishman swinging at his anchorage. Paul Jones was puzzled at first to know how he was to lure the “Drake” out to sea, for a battle under the lee of the land in the harbor was not to be thought of. So he went about from one tack to another, wearing ship and backing and filling, until the curiosity of the English captain, Burdon, was thoroughly aroused, and he sent one of his junior officers out in a cutter to find out who the stranger was. Jones ran his guns in and manœuvred so cleverly that the stern of the “Ranger” was kept towards the boat until he was well aboard. The young officer was rather suspicious, but, nothing daunted, pulled up to the gangway in true man-o’-war style and went on deck. There he was met by an officer, who courteously informed him that he was on board the Continental sloop of war “Ranger,” Captain Paul Jones, and that he and his boat’s crew were prisoners of war.

In the meanwhile Captain Burdon, finding that his boat’s crew did not return, got up his anchor, shook out his sails, and cleared ship for action. He was already suspicious, and too good a seaman to let unpreparedness play any part in his actions. There was not very much wind, and slowly the “Drake” bore down on the silent vessel which lay, sails flapping idly as she rolled, on the swell of the Irish Sea. As the afternoon drew on the wind almost failed, so that it was an hour before sunset before the “Drake” could get within speaking range. Hardly a ripple stirred the surface of the glassy swells, and the stillness was ominous and oppressive.

When within a cable’s length of the “Ranger” Captain Burdon sent up his colors. Captain Jones followed his lead in a moment by running up the Stars and Stripes.

Suddenly a voice, looming big and hoarse in the silence, came from the “Drake,” —

“What ship is that?”

Paul Jones mounted the hammock nettings and, putting his speaking-trumpet to his lips, coolly replied, —

“The American Continental ship ‘Ranger.’ We have been waiting for you. The sun is but little more than an hour from setting, and it is time to begin.”

Then he turned and gave a low order to the man at the wheel, and the “Ranger” wore around so that her broadside would bear. Paul Jones always believed in striking the first blow. When they came before the wind the word was passed, and a mass of flame seemed to leap clear across the intervening water to the “Drake.” The “Ranger” shuddered with the shock and felt in a moment the crashing of the other’s broadside through her hull and rigging. The battle was on in earnest. Yard-arm to yard-arm they went, drifting down the wind, and the deep thundering of the cannonade was carried over to the Irish hills, where masses of people were watching the smoke-enveloped duel. The sun sank low, touching the purple hilltops, a golden ball that shed a ruddy glow over the scene and made the spectacle seem a dream rather than reality. Still they fought on.

It was a glorious fight – and as fair a one as history records. The “Drake” pounded away at the “Ranger’s” hull alone, while Jones was doing all he could with his smaller pieces to cripple his enemy’s rigging. First the “Drake’s” fore-tops’l yard was cut in two. The main dropped next, and the mizzen gaff was shot away. For purposes of manœuvring, the “Drake” was useless and drifted down, her jib trailing in the water and her shrouds and rigging dragging astern. She was almost a wreck. As she heeled over on the swell, the gunners on the “Ranger” could see human blood mingling with the water of the division tubs that came from her scuppers. The first flag was shot away, but another was quickly run up to its place. In a moment that too was shot away from the hoisting halyard and fell into the water astern, where it trailed among the wreckage. But still she fought on.

On the “Ranger” the loss had been comparatively slight. Lieutenant Wallingford and one other man had been killed and there were five or six wounded men in the cockpit. Jones seemed to be everywhere, but still remained uninjured and directed the firing until the end. He saw that the sharpshooters in his tops were doing terrific execution on the decks of his adversary, and at last he saw the imposing figure of Captain Burdon twist around for a second and then sink down to the deck. Another officer fell, and in a moment above the crash of division firing and the rattle of the musketry overhead he heard a cry for quarter.

The battle was at an end in a little over an hour. It was almost as great a victory as that of the “Bonhomme Richard” over the “Serapis.” Paul Jones’s ship carried eighteen guns; the Englishman carried twenty. The “Ranger” had one hundred and twenty-three men; the “Drake” had one hundred and fifty-one and carried many volunteers besides. The “Ranger” lost two killed and had six wounded; the “Drake” lost forty-two killed and wounded. Against great odds John Paul Jones still remained victorious.

The people on shore heard the cannonading cease and saw the great clouds of gold-tinted smoke roll away to the south. There they saw the two vessels locked as if in an embrace of death and a great cheer went up. They thought the “Drake” invincible. The gray of twilight turned to black, and the ships vanished like spectres in the darkness. But late that night some fishermen in a boat came ashore with a sail from the store-room of the “Drake.” They said it had been given them by John Paul Jones. The people knew then that the “Drake” had been captured.

When the “Ranger” returned with her prizes to Brest, and his people told the tale of Paul Jones’s victory, France was electrified. Neither in France nor in England would they at first believe it. France made him her hero. England offered ten thousand guineas for his head.

A STRUGGLE TO THE DEATH

Never, since the beginning of time, has there been a fiercer sea-fight than that between the “Bonhomme Richard” and the “Serapis.” No struggle has been more dogged – no victory greater.

Three – four times during the night-long battle any other man than Paul Jones would have struck his colors. His main-deck battery and crews blown to pieces – his water-line gaping with wounds – his sides battered into one great chasm – still he fought on. His prisoners released – his masts tottering – his rudder gone – his ship afire below and aloft, his resistance was the more desperate. The thought of surrender never occurred to him.

After taking the “Drake” in a gallant fight, burning Whitehaven, and terrorizing the whole British coast, Paul Jones went to Paris, where a commission to the converted East Indiaman, the “Bonhomme Richard,” awaited him. Putting her in the best shape possible, he boldly steered across for English waters. Paul Jones thirsted for larger game.

When Captain Pearson, with the new frigate “Serapis,” on a fine September afternoon in 1779, sighted Paul Jones, he signalled his merchant convoy to scatter, and piped all hands, who rushed jubilantly to quarters. The opportunity of his life had come, for the capture of the rebel frigate meant glory and a baronetcy. But he reckoned without his host.

Across the oily waters came the cheery pipes of the boatswain’s mate of the “Richard” as Jones swung her up to meet her adversary, and Pearson knew his task would not be an easy one. The wind fell so light that the sun had sunk behind the light on Flamborough Head before the ships drifted up to fighting distance, and it was dark before they were ready to come to close quarters. On the “Bonhomme Richard,” Jones’s motley crew, stripped to the waist, were drawn up at the guns, peering out through the ports at the dark shadow on the starboard bow they were slowly overhauling.

The decks were sanded, the hammocks piled around the wheel, and there at the break of the poop stood the captain, trumpet in hand, turning now and then to give an order to Richard Dale or his midshipmen, quiet and composed, with the smile on his face men saw before the fight with the “Drake.” The clumsy hulk rolled to the ground-swell, and the creaking of the masts and clamping of the sheet-blocks were all that broke the silence of the night. No excitement was apparent, and the stillness seemed the greater for an occasional laugh from the gunners, or the rattle of a cutlass newly settled in its sheath.

Then close aboard from out the blackness came a voice, —

“What ship is that?”

Paul Jones moved to the lee mizzen-shrouds and slowly replied, —

“I can’t hear what you say.”

He wanted all of his broadside to bear on the Englishman.

“What ship is that? Answer, or I shall fire.”

The moment had arrived. For answer Jones leaned far over the rail of the poop and passed the word. A sheet of flame flashed from one of the “Richard’s” after eighteen-pounders, followed by a terrific broadside which quaked the rotten timbers of the “Richard” from stem to stern. At the same time the guns of the “Serapis” were brought to bear, and her side seemed a mass of flame.

On the “Richard,” two of the eighteen-pounders burst at this first broadside, killing their crews, heaving up the deck above, and driving the men from the upper tier. The others cracked and were useless. In this terrible situation Paul Jones knew the chances for victory were against him, for he had thought his lower battery his mainstay in a broadside fight.

But if he felt daunted his men did not know it, for, amid the hurricane of fire and roar of the guns, his ringing voice, forward, aft, everywhere, told them that victory was still theirs for the gaining. He ordered all of the men from the useless battery to the main deck; and it was well he did so, – for so terrific was the fire that the six ports of the “Bonhomme Richard” were blown into one, and the shot passed clear through the ship, cutting away all but the supports of the deck above. No one but the marines guarding the powder-monkeys were left there, but they stood firm at their posts while the balls came whistling through and dropped into the sea beyond. But the fire of Paul Jones’s battery did not slacken for a moment. There seemed to be two men to take the place of every man who was killed, and he swept the crowded deck of the “Serapis” from cathead to gallery.

In the meanwhile, the “Serapis,” having the wind of the “Richard,” drew ahead, and Pearson hauled his sheets to run across and rake Jones’s bows. But he miscalculated, and the American ran her boom over the stern of the Englishman. For a moment neither ship could fire at the other, and they hung together in silence, fast locked in a deadly embrace. Jones’s crew, eager to renew the battle, glared forward at the shimmering battle-lanterns of the Englishman, cursing because their guns would not bear. The smoke lifted, and Paul Jones, who was deftly training one of his guns at the main-mast of the “Serapis,” saw Pearson slowly climb up on the rail. The silence had deceived the Englishman, and his voice came clearly across the deck, —

“Have you struck?”

A harsh laugh broke from the “Richard.”

“Struck!” Paul Jones’s answer came in a roar that was heard from truck to keelson. “I haven’t begun to fight yet!”

A cheer went up that drowned the rattle of the musketry from the tops, and the fight went on. Swinging around again the jib-boom of the “Serapis” came over the poop so that Paul Jones could touch it. Rushing to the mast, he seized a hawser, and quickly taking several turns with it, lashed the bowsprit of his enemy to his mizzen-rigging. Grappling-irons were dropped over on the enemy – and the battle became a battle to the death.

“Well done, lads; we’ve got her now.” And Jones turned to his nine-pounders, which renewed their fire. Both crews fought with the fury of desperation. The men at the guns, stripped to the buff, grimed and blackened with powder, worked with extraordinary quickness. Every shot told. But the fire of the “Serapis” was deadly, and she soon silenced every gun but Jones’s two nine-pounders, which he still worked with dogged perseverance. He sent Dale below to hurry up the powder charges. To his horror Dale found that the master-at-arms, knowing the ship to be sinking, had released a hundred English prisoners. The situation was terrifying. With foes within and without, there seemed no hope. But Dale, with ready wit, ordered the prisoners to the pumps and to fight the fire near the magazine, telling them that their only hope of life lay in that. And at it they went, until they dropped of sheer exhaustion.

The doctor passed Dale as he rushed upon deck. “Sir,” said he to Jones, “the water is up to the lower deck, and we will sink with all hands in a few minutes.”

Jones turned calmly to the doctor, as though surprised. “What, doctor,” said he, “would you have me strike to a drop of water? Here, help me get this gun over.”

The surgeon ran below, but Jones got the gun over, and served it, too.

To add to the horror of the situation, just at this moment a ball from a new enemy came screaming just over the head of Paul Jones, and the wind of it knocked off his hat. The carpenter, Stacy, ran up breathlessly.

“My God, she’s firing on us – the ‘Alliance,’ sir!” And the captain glanced astern where the flashes marked the position of the crazy Landais, firing on his own consort.

If ever Paul Jones had an idea of hauling his colors, it must have been at this moment.

He had been struck on the head by a splinter, and the blood surged down over his shoulder – but he didn’t know it.

Just then a fear-crazed wretch rushed past him, trying to find the signal-halyards, crying wildly as he ran, —

“Quarter! For God’s sake, quarter! Our ship is sinking!”

Jones heard the words, and, turning quickly, he hurled an empty pistol at the man, which struck him squarely between the eyes, knocking him headlong down the hatch.

Pearson heard the cry. “Do you call for quarter?” he shouted.

For answer Paul Jones’s nine-pounder cut away the rail on which he was standing.

Then came the turn in the fight. Horrible as had been the slaughter on the “Richard,” the quick flashes from his tops told Paul Jones that his marines had not been placed aloft in vain. He saw the crew on the spar-deck of his enemy fall one by one and men fleeing below for safety. Raising his trumpet, he cheered his topmen to further efforts. In their unceasing fire lay his only hope.

One of them in his maintop with great deliberateness laid aside his musket and picked up a leather bucket of hand grenades. Jones watched him anxiously as, steadying himself, he slowly lay out along the foot-rope of the main-yard. His captain knew what he meant to do. He reached the lift, which was directly over the main hatch of the “Serapis.” There he coolly fastened his bucket to the sheet-block, and, taking careful aim, began dropping his grenades down the open hatchway. The second one fell on a row of exposed powder charges. The explosion that followed shook sea and sky, and the air was filled with blackened corpses. The smoke came up in a mighty cloud, and soon the forks of flame licked through it and up the rigging.

That was the supreme moment of Paul Jones’s life, for he knew that victory was his.

The fire from the “Serapis” ceased as if by magic. The explosion had blown a whole battery to eternity, and, as the smoke cleared a little, he could see the figure of Pearson leaning against the pin-rail, almost deserted, his few men running here and there, stricken mad with fear. Then the English captain stumbled heavily, as though blind, over the slippery deck towards the mizzen, where the flag had been nailed, and with his own hands tore it frantically from the mast.

A mighty victory for Paul Jones it was. But now, as the flames mounted higher through the rifts of smoke, he could see at what a cost. His dead lay piled upon the poop so that he could not get to the gangway. His masts were shot through and through, and strained at the stays at every lift of the bow. The fire, though beaten from the magazine, still burst from the forward hatches, firing the tangled rigging and outlining them in its lurid hues against the black beyond. The water had risen, and the freshening breeze lashed the purple foam in at the lower-deck ports. For hours the men fought against their new enemy; but towards five in the morning their captain decided that no human power could save her. He then began moving his wounded and prisoners to the “Serapis”.

The first gray streaks of dawn saw Paul Jones upon the poop of the “Serapis,” looking to the leeward, where the “Richard” lay rolling heavily. Her flag, shot away again and again, had been replaced and floated proudly from its staff. Lower and lower she sank into the water, mortally wounded, a heavy swell washing in at the lower gun-ports. At length, heaving her stern high in the air, her pennant fluttering a last defiance to the captured “Serapis,” she slowly disappeared, dying grandly as she had lived.

After Pearson’s release, the British government offered ten thousand guineas for Paul Jones, dead or alive. Forty-two British frigates chased him and scoured the Channel; but Jones passed within sight of them, the American flag flying at the mast, and reached France in safety, where he became the hero of the hour. And so long as the Stars and Stripes fly over American war-ships will the men who know hold up as their ideal of a dogged warrior and gallant seaman the hero of Flamborough – Paul Jones.

THE TERRIER AND THE MASTIFF

The first of the great American captains to give his life to the cause of liberty was Nicholas Biddle. And the action in which he lost it is the finest example of daring and hardihood in the little known pages of naval history. His part in that glorious action must ever remain unknown as to its details since but five out of his crew remained alive to tell of it, and we are chiefly indebted to the British accounts for the information which has been handed down.

Nicholas Biddle began his naval career by being shipwrecked on a desert shoal at the age of thirteen. But being rescued, with his four companions, at the end of two months, his ardor was so little dampened that as soon as opportunity offered he immediately went forth in search of further adventures on the sea. A war between England and Spain being imminent, he went to London, and succeeded in getting a midshipman’s warrant on the ship of Captain – afterwards Admiral – Sterling.

But just before the declaration of independence of his own country, a voyage of discovery to the North Pole was proposed by the Royal Geographical Society, and this opportunity seemed to hold forth infinitely more possibilities for advancement than the daily port routine of a British frigate of war.

So, Admiral Sterling refusing Biddle’s mild request to be transferred to one of the vessels, the young man took it upon himself to doff his gold-laced uniform and present himself upon the “Carcase” in very shabby sailor clothes, upon which he was forthwith entered upon her books as a sailor before the mast. He was in glorious company, though, for Horatio Nelson – afterwards to be the greatest admiral England has ever known – shared his humble lot as a jacky, although his prospects in the service were more brilliant than Biddle’s. The expedition, having accomplished its purpose, returned to England in 1774, both young Nelson and Biddle having been appointed coxswains for meritorious service.

When hostilities in the United States began, Biddle, of course, resigned from the British navy and offered his services to the Continental Congress. His first commission was the command of the “Camden,” a galley fitted out by the State of Pennsylvania for the defence of the Delaware River. He was then made a captain in the naval service, and took command of the “Andrew Doria,” of fourteen guns and one hundred and thirty men.

Just before Commodore Hopkins’s fleet hoisted anchor, Biddle had an opportunity to show his intrepidity in a very personal way. Two men who had deserted from his vessel had been taken and were placed in prison at Lewistown. Biddle sent an officer and a squad of men ashore to bring them off. But the officer returned to the ship and reported that the deserters had joined with the other prisoners, and barricaded the door, swearing that no man alive would take them. Biddle put on his side-arms and, taking only a young midshipman with him, went at once to the prison. The door was tightly barred from the inside, and the prisoners, led by one of the deserters named Green, shook their fists and pointed their weapons at him. Some of the more venturesome of the townsfolk, who only needed a resolute leader, now smashed down the door at the naval officer’s directions, and Biddle, drawing both his pistols, quickly stepped within the opening. Green stood in front of his ill-favored companions, his eye gleaming villanously down the barrel of his flint-lock. Without moving his eye from the man, and planting himself squarely in the doorway, Biddle said, steadily, —

“Now, Green, if you don’t take good aim, you are a dead man!”

There was a moment’s pause, after which the pistol fell a little, and finally, under the resolute attitude of his captain, the fellow broke down. He was completely awed, and at Biddle’s command dropped his pistol to the floor and allowed himself to be conducted to the ship. Their leader cowed, the remainder of the prisoners permitted the Lewistown militia, who had recovered from their fright, to come in and make them fast again.

This incident had its moral effect upon his men, and never again, when they learned to know him, was Biddle troubled with disaffection among his crew. The fury with which they went into the fights that followed showed how much he was a man after their own hearts.

After Commodore Esek Hopkins’s unsuccessful encounter with the British fleet, the “Andrew Doria” put to sea and cruised off the coast of Newfoundland. Biddle captured a prize laden with arms and ammunition, which he carried to port, where they greatly strengthened Washington’s army, which was badly in need of supplies of all kinds. He captured a transport and four hundred British soldiers, and made a great number of merchant prizes. He would have taken more, but he only had five men left aboard to take the “Doria” back to Philadelphia.

The Congress had authorized the building of several new frigates, and one of these, the “Randolph,” of thirty-two guns, was just off the stocks. Biddle was made commander of her, and set immediately about finishing her and making her ready for sea. He had great difficulty in getting a crew, as privateering, where the prizes were greater and ship actions less frequent, proved more attractive to the adventurous spirits of the day. Congress, however, drafted a number of men from the army, and the crew was completed by the enlistment of volunteers from among the prisoners taken on prizes. After many difficulties with this motley crew, Biddle at last got to sea in February, 1777.

The men of his old crew were with him to a man, but many of the volunteers were shoal-water sailors, and his army recruits didn’t know a sheet from a buntline. So when he ran into a Hatteras gale a few days out, the “Randolph” carried away her masts, and was altogether so uncomfortable a wreck that the volunteers mutinied, and Biddle had a hard time getting into Charleston harbor. He succeeded at last in refitting and in instilling some of the man-of-war spirit into his crew, sailing at last for the West Indies. Then his luck turned for the better, and he sighted the English ship “True Briton,” twenty guns, convoying three merchantmen. Without accident he succeeded in taking them and in bringing all four prizes safe and sound into Charleston harbor. This was the first capture of the navy in the South, and, as the prizes were again liberally supplied with arms, the capture was doubly welcome. So much did Congress appreciate this affair that they had a medal struck off in Biddle’s honor. The British hearing of this exploit of the “Randolph,” sent a fleet south, and succeeded in blockading her at Charleston for a time.

The State of South Carolina got ready a fleet in the hope of raising the blockade, but before they could get to sea the Englishmen had disappeared.

In February, 1778, Biddle went out with a little fleet composed of the “General Moultrie,” 18, the “Polly,” 16, and the “Fair American,” 14, in search of the British squadron. But missing them, they only succeeded in taking a few merchant vessels of the enemy. They boarded a number of Dutch and French ships, and Biddle knew that before long they must fall in with some of the enemy. To Captain Blake, who was dining with him, he said, “I would not be surprised if my old ship should be out after us. As to anything that carries her guns upon one deck, I think myself a match for her.”

On the afternoon of the 7th of March, a sail was made out to windward, and they sailed up to examine her. As she came down with the wind she was made out to be square-rigged; but, bows on, she looked rather like a sloop than a frigate. A short time later she could be made out more plainly a man-of-war, – evidently of the enemy, – coming down speedily, and, from the way she was sailing, able to out-foot any of the squadron. Biddle could see that she stood well out of the water; but a small frigate might do that. And if she was only a frigate of forty guns or under, he promised himself a great battle that day. But if she were a ship of the line, not only the “Randolph” but the smaller vessels were in great danger, for nothing save a craft somewhere near her size could resist the broadsides of the two heavy gun-tiers.

He quickly made his resolution. Signalling to the fleet of cruisers and prizes to go about, he himself took the deck and sent the little “Randolph” boldly down towards the stranger. On she came, bowing majestically over the water, never making a sign until nearing gunshot distance, when the sound of the pipes and the calls on her deck showed that she was clearing ship for action. Biddle had been prepared for an hour. Now, as she came a little closer to the wind, the American captain discovered what he had suspected – two long lines of muzzles running out of her leeward ports.

She was a line-of-battle-ship, then.

He clinched his jaws and looked over his shoulder to where the prizes were scurrying away in the gathering darkness. They at least would be safe. But he did not shift his course a point, sailing on until the canvas of the great ship seemed to tower far above the little spars of his own vessel. The men of the “Randolph” were aghast at the action of their captain. To them an English “Sixty-Four” was the epitome of all that was powerful upon the seas. Biddle thought so, too; but there was nothing of timidity in his voice as he bade his gunners stand by to train upon her. He knew that this battle would be his last, for he resolved in those few moments that he would not give up his ship while one plank of her remained above water. The enemy might blow him out of the water and send him to the bottom, but before she did it he would give them such a lesson in patriotism that the world would not easily forget it.

His men guessed something of what was in his mind, and by the time the big ship hove close aboard they were keyed up to the fighting pitch, waiting with the utmost impatience for the first shot to be fired. The dusk had fallen, but the great loom of the sails of the English frigate showed plainly as she came closer. They were scarcely a pistol-shot apart when a figure on the Englishman mounted the hammock nettings aft, and a voice came clearly across the water, —

“Ahoy, the frigate!”

Biddle paused a moment to gain time, and then giving a word to his division officers, lifted his speaking-trumpet, —

“What ship is that?”

“His Britannic Majesty’s ship-of-the-line ‘Yarmouth,’ Captain Vincent. Who are you? Answer, or I will be compelled to fire.”

Another pause as Biddle directed the American colors to be run up to the mast, and then said, —

“This is the American Continental ship ‘Randolph,’ Captain Biddle!”

Without the pause of a second a tremendous broadside was poured into the Englishman, and in a moment the battle was on.

Biddle had gained a slight advantage in position by waiting as he did, and the “Randolph’s” broadsides did great execution on the crowded decks of her adversary. But the “Yarmouth” men sprang to their guns, and in a few moments were firing their tremendous broadside of thirty guns as fast as they could be served and run out.

On the “Randolph” Biddle’s men were working well, but the crashing of the shot and the flying splinters were terrific. In fifteen minutes the decks were covered with the bodies of dead and dying men, and the surgeon and his mate below in the cockpit, covered with blood, were laboring to help such of those as could be aided, and the decks, in spite of the sand, were so slippery that as the ship rolled it was difficult to stand upright upon them. Many of the guns of one of the broadsides were disabled, and there was not a gun that had a full crew to man it.

Biddle walked to and fro from one battery to another, lending a word here and a hand there, acting as sponger or tackle or handspikeman, wherever he was most needed. The men fought with the energy of despair – the despair of the dying. If they were to die, they would die hard, and the guns were loaded as though they would fire as many times as they could in the short time left them. The English aimed more deliberately. But when the dreaded broadside came, it dealt a blow that shook the smaller ship from stem to stern.

Biddle, although badly wounded, refused to leave the deck, and, ordering a stool to be placed where he could best direct the firing, sat calmly down, though in great agony, and gave the orders to his officers, who repeated them to the men.

It has never been discovered just what happened on the “Randolph.” In spite of her losses, she was keeping up her fire wonderfully, when, with scarcely a warning of any kind, she blew up.

The force of the explosion was so great that the ship split in two, and sank immediately. The air was filled with guns, spars, and the blackened bodies of men, many of which fell upon the deck of the “Yarmouth.” An American ensign, neatly rolled in a ball, ready to be sent aloft on the “Randolph” if the others had been shot away, fell on the quarter-deck of the Englishman unsinged.

That national emblem was all, save a spar or two, that remained of the “Randolph.” Captain Biddle and three hundred and ten of her crew of three hundred and fifteen were blown to pieces and drowned. Four days later the “Yarmouth,” cruising near the same place, discovered a piece of the wreck to which five men, more dead than alive, had managed to cling.

The “Randolph” was lost, but the “Yarmouth” was so badly cut up that she could not follow the chase, and was obliged to lay to for repairs. What, if any, difference there might have been had the “Randolph” not been destroyed by explosion from within it is not easy to say; but all authorities agree that the fight, while it lasted, was one of the most determined in history. Captain Biddle at the time of his death was but twenty-eight years old, and the infant navy and the colonies lost one of their most intrepid officers and gallant seamen.

DECATUR AND THE “PHILADELPHIA”

It was on the deck of the “Enterprise,” before Tripoli, in 1804. The crew had been called aft, and Decatur, smiling, stood on his quarter-deck.

“My men,” said he, “the ‘Philadelphia’ is in the hands of the enemy. A few days from now and we may see American guns turned against American sailors. The commodore has given us permission to sail in and blow her up. Will you go?”

Into the air flew a hundred caps, and three wild American cheers were the answer.

“I can’t take you all,” he explained; “the expedition is a dangerous one. We are going under the broadsides of the enemy, and I only want those of you who are ready. Now, lads, any of you who are willing to go, take one step aft.”

Without a second’s pause the crew of the “Enterprise,” to a man, stepped out; then, fearful lest others should get in the front rank, came towards the young commander in a body, elbowing and swearing at one another lustily.

Decatur smiled. With such a spirit there was nothing he might not accomplish. He picked out sixty-two of his youngest and steadiest men, each of them touching his tarry cap with a grateful “Thank’ee, sir,” as Decatur called his name.

That afternoon they tumbled joyfully down into a captured ketch, which had been named the “Intrepid,” and, stores aboard, hoisted their three-cornered sail for the harbor of Tripoli. As they hauled off, Decatur went below to see that all his supplies and combustibles were stored, when Midshipman Lawrence came towards him somewhere from the depths of the fore-hold, pushing along by the scruff of the neck a youngster, who was crying bitterly.

“I found this stowaway, sir,” said Lawrence, with a smile.

“Please, sir,” sobbed the boy, “don’t send me back. I want to see this ’ere fight, and I ain’t going to do no harm. Don’t send me back, sir.”

Decatur had looked up with a fierce frown, but the anxiety on the lad’s face was pathetic, and he smiled in spite of himself.

“You can go,” he laughed, “but I’ll put you in the brig – when we get back.”

On that six days’ voyage to Tripoli the wind blew a hurricane, and the masquerade of the American tars seemed likely to end in disaster, without even a fight for their pains. But as they sighted the coast the sea went down, and the arrangements were completed. The yellow sails of the “Siren,” their consort, hove again into sight, and by the afternoon of the 16th of February the two vessels were bearing down upon the dark line that lay shimmering purple under the haze of the southern sky.

The sun dropped down, a ball of fire, into the western sea, and by eight o’clock the towers of the bashaw’s castle loomed dark against the amber of the moonlit sky. To the left the stately spars of the doomed frigate towered above the rigging in the harbor, and floating at her truck was the hated insignia of the enemy.

The piping northern breeze bellied the crazy sail of the ketch and sent the green seas swashing under the high stern, speeding them good luck on their hazardous venture. Catalano, the pilot, stood at the helm, swinging the clumsy tiller to meet her as she swayed. By his side was a tall figure, a white burnoose about his shoulders and a fez set jauntily on his head – Decatur. Four others, in unspeakable Tripolitan costumes, lounged about the deck or squatted cross-legged. But the delusion went no further. For one of them, Reuben James, was puffing at a stubby black pipe, and another spat vigorously to leeward. The others were below, lying along the sides, sharpening their cutlasses.

On they sped, Catalano heading her straight for the frigate. As the harbor narrowed and the black forts came nearer, they could see the dusky outlines of the sentries and the black muzzles that frowned on them from the battlements. Over towards the east faint glimmers showed where the town was, but the wind had now fallen low, and the lapping of the water along the sides alone awoke the silence. A single light shone from the forecastle of the frigate, where the anchor watch kept its quiet vigil. She swung at a long cable, a proud prisoner amid the score of watchful sentinels that encircled her.

As placid as the scene about him, Decatur turned to the pilot and gave a low order. The helm was shifted and the tiny vessel pointed for the bowsprit of the “Philadelphia.” Nearer and nearer they came, until scarcely a cable’s length separated them. They saw several turbaned heads, and an officer leaned over the rail, puffing lazily at a cigarette. He leisurely took the cigarette from his mouth, and his voice came across the quiet water of the harbor, —

“Where do you come from?” he hailed.

Catalano, the pilot, answered him in the lingua Franca of the East, —

“The ketch ‘Stella,’ from Malta. We lost our anchors and cables in the gale, and would like to lie by during the night.”

The Tripolitan took another puff, and an ominous stir, quickly silenced, was heard down in the hold of the ketch. It seemed an eternity before the answer came, —

“Your request is unusual, but I will grant it,” said the Tripolitan, at last. “What ship is that in the offing?”

The officer had seen the “Siren,” which hovered outside the entrance of the harbor.

“The British ship ‘Transfer,’” said Catalano, promptly.

The ketch was slowly drifting down until a grappling-iron could almost be thrown aboard. Right under the broadside she went, and a line of dark heads peered over the rail at her as she gradually approached the bow.

The chains of the frigate were now almost in the grasp of Reuben James, on the forecastle, when the wind failed and a cat’s-paw caught the ketch aback. Down she drifted towards the terrible broadside. But at a sign from Decatur the eager Lawrence and James got into a small boat and carried a line to a ring-bolt at the frigate’s bow. A boat put out from the “Philadelphia” at the same time. But Lawrence coolly took the hawser from the Tripolitan – “to save the gentleman trouble,” he explained – and brought it aboard the “Intrepid.” A moment more, and the ketch was warping down under the “Philadelphia’s” quarter. It was a moment of dire peril. The slightest suspicion, and they would be blown to pieces.

Decatur leaned lightly against the rail, but his hand grasped his cutlass under his robe so that the blood tingled in his nails and his muscles were drawn and tense. Morris and Joseph Bainbridge stood at the rigging beside him, trembling like greyhounds in leash.

Suddenly they swung around and shot out from under the shadow into a yellow patch of moonlight. The watchful eyes above the rail saw the anchor and cables and the white jackets of the sailors below decks as they strove to hide themselves in the shadows. One glance was enough. In an instant the ship resounded with the thrilling cry, “Americano! Americano!”

At the same moment the “Intrepid” ground up against the side of the frigate. In an instant, as if by magic, she was alive with men. Throwing off his disguise, and with a loud cry of “Boarders, away!” Decatur sprang for the mizzen-chains. And now the hot blood of fighting leaped to their brains. The long agony of suspense was over. Lawrence and Laws sprang for the chain-plates and hauled themselves up. Decatur’s foot slipped, and Morris was the first on deck. Laws dashed at a port, pistols in hand. Nothing could withstand the fury of the charge, and over the rail they swarmed, cutlasses in teeth, jumping over the nettings, and down on the heads of the Tripolitans below. Though Morris was first on deck, Decatur lunged in ahead of him, bringing down the Tripolitan officer before he could draw his sword. One of them aimed a pike at him, but he parried it deftly, and Morris cut the fellow down with a blow that laid his shoulder open from collar to elbow.

Though surprised, the Tripolitans fought fiercely. They had won their title of “the best hand-to-hand fighters in the world” in many a hard pirate battle in the Mediterranean. Around the masts they rallied, scimetars in hand, until they were cut or borne down by the fury of their opponents.

After the first order, not a word was spoken and not a shot was fired. The Americans needed no orders. Over the quarter-deck they swept – irresistible, clearing it in a trice. Overwhelmed by the fierce onslaught, the Tripolitans fled for life, the sailors driving them up on the forecastle and overboard in a mass, where their falling bodies sounded like the splash of a ricochet.

So swift was the work that in ten minutes no Tripolitans were left on the deck of the frigate but the dead. Not a sailor had been killed. One man had been slashed across the forehead, but he grinned through the blood and fought the more fiercely. Then the watchers out on the “Siren” saw a single rocket go high in the air, which was Decatur’s signal that the “Philadelphia” was again an American vessel.

In the meanwhile the combustibles were handed up from the ketch with incredible swiftness, and the work of destruction began. Midshipman Morris and his crew had fought their way below to the cock-pit and had set a fire there. But so swiftly did those above accomplish their work that he and his men barely had time to escape. On reaching the upper deck, Decatur found the flames pouring from the port-holes on both sides and flaring up red and hungry to seize the tar-soaked shrouds. He gave the order to abandon, and over the sides they tumbled as quickly as they had come. Decatur was the last to leave the deck. All the men were over, and the ketch was drifting clear, while around him the flames were pouring, their hot breath overpowering him. But he made a jump for it and landed safely, amid the cheers of his men.

Then the great oars were got out, eight on a side, and pulling them as only American sailor-men could or can, they swept out towards the “Siren.”

The Tripolitans ashore and on the gunboats had hastened to their guns, and now, as the ketch was plainly seen, their batteries belched forth a terrific storm of shot that flew across the water. The men bent their backs splendidly to their work, jeering the while at the enemy as the balls whistled by their heads or sent the foam splashing over them. Out they went across the great crimson glare of the fire. It was magnificent. The flames swept up the shrouds with a roar, catching the woodwork of the tops and eating them as though they were tinder. She was ablaze from water to truck, and all the heavens were alight, – aglow at the splendid sacrifice. Then to the added roar of the batteries ashore came the response from the guns of the flaming ship, which, heated by the fierce flames, began to discharge themselves. But not all of them were fired so, for in a second all eyes were dazzled by a blazing light, and they saw the great hull suddenly burst open, with huge streaks of flame spurting from between the parting timbers. Then came a roar that made the earth and sea shudder. The fire had reached the magazine.

The waves of it came out to the gallant crew, who, pausing in their work, gave one last proof of their contempt of danger. Rising to their feet, they gave three great American cheers that echoed back to the forts while their guns thundered fruitlessly on.

Decatur and his men were safe under the “Siren’s” guns.

Is it any wonder that Congress gave Decatur a sword and made him a captain, or that Lord Nelson called this feat “the most daring act of any age”?

THE BIGGEST LITTLE FIGHT IN NAVAL HISTORY

It should have been renown enough for one man to have performed what Nelson was pleased to call “the most daring act of any age.” But the capture of the “Philadelphia” only whetted Decatur’s appetite for further encounters. He was impetuous, bold even to rashness, and so dashing that to his men he was irresistible. But behind it all – a thing rare in a man of his peculiar calibre – there was the ability to consider judiciously and to plan carefully as well as daringly to execute. His fierce temper led him into many difficulties, but there was no cruelty behind it; and the men who served with him, while they feared him, would have followed him into the jaws of death, for they loved him as they loved no other officer in the American service. Once while the frigate “Essex,” Captain Bainbridge, lay in the harbor at Barcelona, the officers of the American vessel suffered many petty indignities at the instance of the officers of the Spanish guardship. Having himself been subjected to a slight from the Spanish commander, Lieutenant Decatur took the bull by the horns. He bade his coxswain pull to the gangway of the Spaniard, and he went boldly aboard. His lips were set, for he had resolved upon his own responsibility to make an immediate precedent which would serve for all time. The Spanish commander, most fortunately, was absent. But Decatur none the less strode aft past the sentry to the gangway and, lifting his great voice so that it resounded from truck to keelson, he shouted, —

“Tell your comandante that Lieutenant Stephen Decatur, of the ‘Essex,’ declares him to be a scoundrelly coward, and if Lieutenant Decatur meets him ashore he will cut his ears off.”

So among the men of the squadron Decatur came to be known as a man who brooked nothing and dared everything.

But when the crusty Preble took command in the Mediterranean he was not over-impressed with the under-officers of his command. Not one of the lieutenants was over twenty-four and none of those higher in authority had turned thirty. Decatur and Somers were twenty-five; Charles Stewart was only twenty-six, and Bainbridge the younger; Morris and Macdonough were barely out of their teens.

It was not the custom of the commander-in-chief to mince his words. So sparing himself the delicacy of secluding himself behind the saving bulkheads of the after-cabin he swore right roundly at his home government for sending him what he was pleased to call “a parcel of d – school-boys.” He was a martinet of the old style, and believed in the school of the fo’c’s’le, and not in young gentlemen whose friends at home sent them in by the ports of the after-cabin. He held the youngsters aloof, and not until he had tried them in every conceivable fashion would he consider them in his councils. A year had passed, and Decatur, Morris, Bainbridge, Macdonough, and Somers had helped to add glorious pages to naval history, before the old man, with a smile to Colonel Lear, the consul, consented to say, —

“Well, after all, colonel, they are very good school-boys!”

Although Decatur’s success in the destruction of the “Philadelphia” had removed a dangerous auxiliary battery from the harbor of Tripoli, the bashaw was far from overawed, and, with the officers and crew of the “Philadelphia” as hostages, declined to consider any terms offered by the Americans; and so it was resolved by Commodore Preble to make an attempt upon the Tripolitan batteries and fleet. The Americans had the “Constitution,” – “Old Ironsides,” – Commodore Preble, and six brigs and schooners mounting twelve and sixteen guns each. Preble had also succeeded in borrowing from “the most gracious king of the Sicilies,” who was then at war with the bashaw, two bomb-vessels and six single gunboats, – quite a formidable little force of a hundred and thirty-four guns and about a thousand men.

It was not until the morning of the 3d of August, 1804, that the weather, which had been very stormy, moderated sufficiently to allow the squadron to approach the African coast. The gunboats were unwieldy craft, flat-bottomed, and, as the sea made clean breeches over them, they were a dozen times in danger of sinking. But by ten o’clock the sky to the southward had lightened, and the heavy storm-clouds were blowing away overhead to the westward. “Old Ironsides” shook the reefs out of her topsails and, spreading her top-gallant-sails, she beat up for the entrance of the harbor of Tripoli with two of the gunboats in tow. Her tall spars, seeming almost to pierce the low-rolling clouds, towered far above the little sticks of the “Siren” and “Nautilus,” which bore down directly in her wake. The sea had lashed out its fury, and, before the little fleet had reached the reef, the gray had turned to green, and here and there a line of amber showed where the mid-day sun was stealing through.

Stephen Decatur, on gunboat No. 4, had been given command of the left division of three gunboats. Casting off the tow-lines from his larger consorts, he got under weigh, and bore down for a rift between the reefs at the eastern entrance to the harbor, where the Tripolitan fleet, cleared for action, lay awaiting him. The wind was on his bow, and he was obliged to hold a course close to the wind in order to weather the point.

The gunboat lumbered uncertainly in the cross-sea, for she had no longer the steady drag of the “Constitution’s” hawser to steady her. The seas came up under her flat bottom, and seemed to toss rather than swing her into the hollows. She was at best an unsteady gun-platform, and nice sail-trimming was an impossibility. But they got out their sweeps, and that steadied her somewhat. Great volumes of spray flew over the weather-bow as she soused her blunt nose into it, and the fair breeze sent it shimmering down to leeward.

Decatur stood aft by the helmsman, watching the quivering leeches, and keeping her well up into the wind. Beside him stood his midshipmen, Thomas Macdonough – afterwards to win a great victory of his own – and Joseph Thorn. Both of them had smelt powder before, and Macdonough had been one of the first on the deck of the ill-fated “Philadelphia.” This was to be a different sort of a fight from any they had seen. It was to be man to man, where good play of cutlass and pike and youth and American grit might mean victory. Defeat meant annihilation. But youth is good at a game of life and death, and as they looked at Decatur there was never a moment’s fear of the result. They leaned against the rail to leeward, looking past the foam boiling on the point to the spars of the African gunboats, and their eyes were alight with eagerness for battle.

The men were bending steadily to their sweeps. Most of them were stripped to the waist, and Decatur looked along the line of sinewy arms and chests with a glow of pride and confidence. There was no wavering anywhere in the row of glistening faces. But they all knew the kind of pirates they were going to meet, – reckless, treacherous devils, who loved blood as they loved Allah, – the best hand-to-hand fighters in the Mediterranean.

The ring of the cutlasses, loose-settled in their hangers, against the butts of the boarding-pistols was clear above the sound of the row-locks and the rush of the waters, while forward the catch of a song went up, and they bent to their work the more merrily.

As they came under the lee of the Tripolitan shore and the sea went down, Decatur ordered the long iron six-pounder cast loose. They had provided solid shot for long range at the batteries, and these were now brought up and put conveniently on the fo’c’s’le. But for the attack upon the vessels of the fleet they loaded first with a bag of a thousand musket-balls. At point-blank range Decatur judged that this would do tremendous execution among the close-ranked mass of Tripolitans on the foreign vessels. His idea was not to respond to the fire of the enemy, which would soon begin, until close aboard, and then to go over the rail before they could recover from their confusion. He felt that if they did not make a wreck of him and batter up his sweeps he could get alongside. And once alongside, he knew that his men would give a good account of themselves.

But as they came up towards the point the wind shifted, and the head of the gunboat payed off. Even with their work at the sweeps, he now knew that it would be no easy matter for all the Americans to weather the point, for two of them were well down to leeward. But his brother, James Decatur, in gunboat No. 2, and Sailing-Master John Trippe, in gunboat No. 6, had kept well up to windward, and so he felt that he should be able to count on at least these two. As they reached the line of breakers, one of the gunboats to leeward, under Richard Somers, was obliged to go about, and in a moment the two others followed. Then the young commanders of the windward gunboats knew that if the attack was to be made they alone would have the glory of the first onslaught.

What Decatur feared most was that Preble, on the “Constitution,” would see how terribly they were overmatched and signal the recall. But as they reached the point, Decatur resolutely turned his back to the flagship, and, putting his helm up, set her nose boldly into the swash of the entrance and headed for the gray line of vessels, three times his number, which hauled up their anchors and came down, gallantly enough, to meet him.

There was very little sound upon the gunboat now. The wind being favorable, the Americans shipped their sweeps, and sat watching the largest of the Tripolitan vessels, which was bearing down upon them rapidly. They saw a puff of white smoke from her fo’c’s’le, and heard the whistle of a shot, which, passing wide, ricochetted just abeam and buried itself beyond. Thorn stood forward, waiting for the order to fire his long gun. But Decatur gave no sign. He stood watching the lift of the foresail, carefully noting the distance between the two vessels. Trippe and James Decatur had each picked out an adversary, and were bearing down as silently as he, in spite of the cannonade which now came from both the vessels and batteries of the Turks. The shots were splashing all around him, but nothing had been carried away, and the American jackies jeered cheerfully at the wretched marksmanship. As the Tripolitans came nearer, the Americans could see the black mass of men along the rails and catch the glimmer of the yataghans. Then Decatur ordered his own men to seize their pikes and draw their pistols and cutlasses.

At the word from Decatur, Thorn began training the fo’c’s’le gun, which in the steadier sea would have a deadly effect. The distance was a matter of yards now, and a shot came ploughing alongside that threw spray all along the rail and nearly doused the match of the gunner of the fo’c’s’le. But not until he could see the whites of the eyes of his adversaries did Decatur give the order to fire. As the big gun was discharged point-blank into the thick of the crowded figures, Decatur shifted his helm quickly and lay aboard the Tripolitan. So tremendous had been the execution of the musket-balls, and so quickly had the manœuvre been executed, that almost before the Tripolitans were aware of it the Americans were upon them. The few shots from the Turkish small arms had gone wild, but a fierce struggle ensued before the Americans reached the deck. At last Decatur, followed by Thorn, Macdonough, and twenty-two seamen, gained the fo’c’s’le in a body, and the Tripolitans retreated aft.

The Tripolitan boat was divided amidships by an open hatchway, and for a moment the opposing forces stopped to catch their breath, glaring at one another across the opening. Decatur did not pause long. Giving them a volley of pistol-bullets at close range, he dashed furiously down one gangway, while Macdonough and Thorn went down the other, and, with a cheer, cut down the remaining Turks or drove them overboard. A half-dozen went down a forward hatch, and these were made prisoners.

It was a short fight, with an inconsiderable loss to Decatur, but the Tripolitan dead were strewn all over the decks, and the Turkish captain was pierced by fourteen bullets. The Tripolitan flag was hauled down, and, taking his prize in tow, Decatur put his men at the sweeps again, to move farther out of the reach of the batteries.

By this time James Decatur and John Trippe had got into the thick of it. Following Stephen Decatur’s example, they dashed boldly at the larger of the bashaw’s vessels, and, reserving their fire for close range, they lay two of them aboard. John Trippe, Midshipman Henley, and nine seamen had gained the deck of their adversary, when the vessels drifted apart, and they were left alone on the deck of the enemy. But Trippe was the man for the emergency. So rapidly did they charge the Turks that their very audacity gave them the advantage, and Trippe finally succeeded in killing the Tripolitan commander by running him through with a boarding-pike. They fought with the energy of despair, and, although wounded and bleeding from a dozen sabre-cuts, struggled on until their gunboat got alongside and they were rescued by their comrades.

But the story of the treachery of the Turkish captain and Stephen Decatur’s revenge for the death of his brother makes even the wonderful defensive battle of Trippe seem small by comparison.

James Decatur, having got well up with one of the largest of the Tripolitan vessels, delivered so quick and telling a fire with his long gun and musketry that the enemy immediately struck his colors. He hauled alongside and clambered up and over the side of the gunboat to take possession of her personally. As his head came up above the rail his men saw the Turkish commander rush forward and aim his boarding-pistol at the defenceless American. The bullet struck him fairly in the forehead, and Decatur, with barely a sound, sank back into his boat.

In their horror at the treachery of the Tripolitan, the Americans allowed the boat to sheer off, and the Turk, getting out his sweeps, was soon speeding away toward the protection of the batteries.

Stephen Decatur, towing his prize to safety, had noted the gallant attack, and had seen the striking of the Turkish colors. But not until an American boat darted alongside of him did he hear the news of the treacherous manner of his brother’s death. The shock of the information for the moment appalled him, but in the place of his grief there arose so fierce a rage at the dastardly act that for a moment he was stricken dumb and senseless. His men sprang quickly when at last he thundered out his orders. Deftly casting off the tow-line of the prize, they hoisted all sail and jumped to their sweeps as though their lives depended on it. Macdonough’s gun-crew were loading with solid shot this time, and, as soon as they got the range, a ball went screaming down towards the fleeing Tripolitan. The men at the sweeps needed little encouragement. They had heard the news, and they loved James Decatur as they worshipped his brother, who stood aft, his lips compressed, anxiously watching the chase. The water boiled under the oar-blades as the clumsy hulk seemed to spring from one wave-crest to another. Again the long gun spoke, and the canister struck the water all about the Turkish vessel. The Tripolitans seemed disorganized, for their oars no longer moved together and the blades were splashing wildly. Another solid shot went flying, and Decatur smiled as he saw the spray fly up under the enemy’s counter. There would be no mercy for the Tripolitans that day. Nearer and nearer they came, until the Turks, seeing that further attempts at flight were useless, dropped their sweeps and prepared to receive the Americans. They shifted their helm so that their gun could bear, and the shot that followed tore a great rent in Decatur’s foresail. But the Americans heeded it little more than if it had been a puff of wind, and pausing only to deliver another deadly discharge of the musket-balls at point-blank range, Decatur swung in alongside under cover of the smoke.

As the vessels grated together, Decatur jumped for the Tripolitan rigging, and, followed by his men, quickly gained the deck. Two Turks rushed at Decatur, aiming vicious blows with their scimetars; but he parried them skilfully with his pike, looking around him fiercely the while for the captain. As he thought of his brother dying, or dead, he swore that no American should engage the Turkish commander but himself. He had not long to wait. They espied each other at about the same moment, and brushing the intervening weapons aside, dashed upon each other furiously.

Decatur was tall, and as active as a cat. His muscles were like steel, and his rage seemed to give him the strength of a dozen. But the Mussulman was a giant, the biggest man in the Tripolitan fleet, and a very demon in power and viciousness. So strong was he, that as Decatur lunged at him with his boarding-pike he succeeded in wrenching it from the hand of the American, and so wonderfully quick that Decatur had hardly time to raise his cutlass to parry the return. He barely caught it; but in doing so his weapon broke off short at the hilt. The next lunge he partially warded by stepping to one side; but the pike of the Mussulman in passing cut an ugly wound in his arm and chest. Entirely defenceless, he now knew that his only chance was at close quarters, so he sprang in below the guard of the Turk and seized him around the waist, hoping to trip and stun him. But the Tripolitan tore the arms away as though he had been a stripling, and, seizing him by the throat, bore him by sheer weight to the deck, trying the while to draw a yataghan. The American crew, seeing things going badly with their young captain, fought in furiously, and in a moment the mass of Americans and Tripolitans were fighting in one desperate, struggling, smothering heap, above the prostrate bodies of their captains, neither of whom could succeed in drawing a weapon. The Turk was the first to get his dagger loose, but the American’s death-like grasp held his wrist like a vise, and kept him from striking the blow. Decatur saw another Turk just beside him raise his yataghan high above his head, and he felt that he was lost. But at this moment a sailor, named Reuben James, who loved Decatur as though he were a brother, closed in quickly and caught on his own head the blow intended for Decatur. Both his arms had been disabled, but he asked nothing better than to lay down his life for his captain.

In the meanwhile, without relinquishing his grip upon the Turk, Decatur succeeded in drawing a pistol from the breast of his shirt, and, pressing the muzzle near the heart of the Tripolitan, fired. As the muscles of his adversary relaxed, the American managed to get upon one knee, and so to his feet, stunned and bleeding, but still unsubdued. The Tripolitans, disheartened by the loss of their leader, broke ground before the force of the next attack and fled overboard or were cut down where they stood.

The death of James Decatur was avenged.

The other Tripolitan gunboats had scurried back to safety, so Decatur, with his two prizes, made his way out towards the flagship unmolested. His victory had cost him dearly. There was not a man who had not two or three wounds from the scimetars, and some of them had cuts all over the body. The decks were like a slaughter-pen and the scuppers were running blood. But the bodies of the Tripolitans were ruthlessly cast overboard to the sharks; and by the time the Americans had reached the “Constitution” the decks had been scrubbed down and the wounded bandaged and roughly cared for by those of their comrades who had fared less badly.

Decatur, by virtue of his exploit in destroying the “Philadelphia,” already a post-captain at the age of twenty-five, could expect no further immediate honors at the hands of the government; but then, as ever afterwards, he craved nothing but a stanch ship and a gallant crew. The service he could do his country was its own reward.

A DOUBLE ENCOUNTER

The old “Constitution” was out on the broad ocean again! And when the news went forth that she had succeeded for the seventh time in running the blockade of the British squadrons, deep was the chagrin of the Admiralty. This Yankee frigate, still stanch and undefeated, had again and again proved herself superior to everything afloat that was British; had shown her heels, under Hull’s masterly seamanship, to a whole squadron during a chase that lasted three days; and had under Hull, and then under Bainbridge, whipped both the “Guerriere” and the “Java,” two of their tidiest frigates, in an incredibly short time, with a trifling loss both in men and rigging. She was invincible; and the title which she had gained before Tripoli, under Commodore Preble, when the Mussulman shot had hailed against her oaken timbers and dropped harmlessly into the sea alongside, seemed more than ever to befit her. “Old Ironsides” was abroad again, overhauled from royal to locker, with a crew of picked seamen and a captain who had the confidence of the navy and the nation.

Her hull had been made new, her canvas had come direct from the sail-lofts at Boston, and her spars were the stanchest that the American forests could afford. She carried thirty-one long 24-pounders and twenty short 32-pounders, – fifty-one guns in all, throwing six hundred and forty-four pounds of actual weight of metal to a broadside. Her officers knew her sailing qualities, and she was ballasted to a nicety, bowling along in a top-gallant-stu’n-sail breeze at twelve knots an hour.

The long list of her victories over their old-time foe had given her men a confidence in the ship and themselves that attained almost the measure of a faith; and, had the occasion presented itself, they would have been as willing to match broadsides with a British seventy-four as with a frigate of equal metal with themselves. They were a fine, hearty lot, these jack-tars; and, as “Old Ironsides” left the green seas behind and ploughed her bluff nose boldly through the darker surges of the broad Atlantic, they vowed that the frigate’s last action would not be her least. The “Constitution” would not be dreaded by the British in vain.

For dreaded she was among the officers of the British North Atlantic squadron. As soon as it was discovered by the British Admiralty that she had passed the blockade, instructions were at once given out and passed from ship to ship to the end that every vessel of whatever class which spoke another on the high seas should report whether or not she had seen a vessel which looked like the “Constitution.” By means of this ocean telegraphy they hoped to discover the course and intention of the great American, and finally to succeed in bringing her into action with a British fleet. By this time they had learned their lesson. Single frigates were given orders to avoid an encounter, while other frigates were directed to hunt for her in pairs!

Charles Stewart had been one of old Preble’s “school-boy captains” before Tripoli, the second in command. He had been one to suggest the expedition to cut out or destroy the “Philadelphia,” the envied command of which fell to Decatur. But he won distinction enough before the batteries there, and afterwards when he captured the French “Experiment,” of a much heavier force and armament than his own, in a brilliant little action. He had entered the merchant service at thirteen, had been captain of a ship in the India trade at nineteen, and thus from his boyhood had been schooled in the finer points of rough-and-ready seamanship.

He was born in Philadelphia, in 1778, at a time when the blood of patriotism ran hot in the veins of the mothers as well as of the fathers of the race, and he then imbibed the principles he afterwards stood for so valiantly on sea and on land. On the frigate “United States,” that “nursery of heroes,” he had for mess-mates Stephen Decatur and Richard Somers; and Edward Preble gave him ideas of discipline that later stood him in good stead. He was, like Decatur, of an impetuous disposition; but he had learned what quick obedience meant to the service, and among the men on the “Constitution” it was known that infractions of duty would be quickly punished. The men tumbled quickly to the gear and handled the guns so smartly that with his picked seamen Stewart had not been out of sight of land a week before they attained a proficiency in manœuvre rarely surpassed on a man-of-war. It is related that once, having received an order from a superior officer to sail with his ship immediately, Stewart got under weigh, towing behind him his mainmast, which he had not had the opportunity to step.

Stewart was, of course, aware of the orders which had been issued by the Admiralty, but with his ship in fine condition and provisioned for a long cruise he feared nothing that floated, whether one ship or two. In fact, just before leaving his young wife in Boston he had asked her what he should bring her home.

“A British frigate,” said she, patriotically.

“I will bring you two of them,” he said, smiling.

Stewart sailed to the southward, in the hope of falling in with some vessels in the India trade. For two months, in spite of their fitness, the men were daily exercised in all weathers at evolutions with the sails and great guns, and part of the day was given to cutlass-work and pistol-practice. No emergency drill was overlooked, and from reefing topsails to sending up spare spars or setting stu’n-sails they moved like the co-ordinated parts of a great machine. But one prize having been taken, however, Stewart set his course for the coast of Europe, to seek the lion, like Paul Jones, on his own cruising ground.

On February 18, 1815, just two months after leaving Boston, the “Constitution,” being then near the Portuguese coast, sighted a large sail, and immediately squared away in pursuit. But hardly were they set on their new course before another sail hove up to leeward, and Stewart quickly made down for her. Overhauling her shortly, she was discovered to be the British merchant ship “Susan,” which he seized as a prize and sent back to Boston. Meanwhile the other sail, which afterwards proved to be the “Elizabeth,” 74, had disappeared.

The following day the “Constitution” was holding a course to the southward from the coast of Spain toward Madeira. A group of her officers stood upon her quarter-deck, watching the scud flying to leeward. They were rather a discontented lot. They had been to sea two months, and beyond a few merchant prizes they had nothing to show for their cruise. It was not like the luck of “Old Ironsides.” What they craved was action to put a confirmatory test to the metal they were so sure of. The fo’c’s’le was grumbling, too; and the men who had been in her when she fought the “Guerriere” and the “Java” could no longer in safety boast of the glory of those combats.

Had they but known it, the “Elizabeth,” 74, and the “Tiber,” 38, in command of Captain Dacres, who had lost the “Guerriere,” were but a few hours astern of them; and the “Leander,” 50, the “Newcastle,” 50, and the “Acasta,” 40, whom they had so skilfully eluded at Boston, were dashing along from the westward in pursuit. The seas to the eastward, too, were swarming with other frigates (in couples), who were seeking her no less anxiously than she was seeking them.

Stewart was not so easily disheartened as his officers. He knew that the “Constitution” was in the very midst of the ships of the enemy. Had he not known it he would not have been there. He came on deck during the afternoon in a high good humor. He was a believer in presentiments, and said, jovially, —

“The luck of the ‘Constitution’ isn’t going to fail her this time, gentlemen. I assure you that before the sun rises and sets again you will be engaged in battle with the enemy, and it will not be with a single ship.”

The morning of the next day dawned thick and cloudy. Though well to the southward, the air was cold and damp. The wind was blowing sharply from the northeast, and the choppy seas sent their gray crests pettishly or angrily upward, where they split into foam and were carried down to mingle with the blur of the fog to leeward. Occasionally, in the wind-squalls, the rain pattered like hail against the bellying canvas and ran down into the lee-clews, where it was caught as it fell and whipped out into the sea beyond.

Two or three officers paced the quarter-deck, looking now and then aloft or to windward to see if the weather were clearing. Saving these, the fellows at the wheel, and the watch on deck, all hands were below on the gun-deck, polishing their arms or loitering in the warmth near the galley, where the cooks were preparing the mid-day meal.

During the morning watch, Stewart, for some reason which he was unable to give, save an unaccountable impulse, changed the course and sent the ship down sixty miles to the southwest. Shortly after noon the fog fell lower, and so thinned out at the mast-head that the lookout on the topsail-yard could soon see along its upper surface. At about one o’clock the welcome sound of “Sail, ho!” came echoing down through the open hatchways. While ordinarily the sighting of a sail so near the coast has no great significance, Stewart’s prediction of a battle had aroused the men to a fever of impatience; and when they knew that a large sail, apparently a frigate, had been raised and that the fog was lifting, the watch below dropped their kits and tools and tumbled up on deck to have a glimpse of the stranger. Here and there wider rifts appeared in the fog-banks, and the midshipman of the watch, who climbed with a glass into the foretop, soon made her out to be a frigate bearing about two points on the port-bow.

Stewart came up from below and immediately crowded on top-gallant-sails and royals in pursuit. Before long the weather had cleared, so that they could make out the horizon to windward, and from the deck could dimly discern the hazy mass of the chase as she hung on the lee-bow, apparently motionless. In less than an hour the man at the mast-head reported another sail ahead of the first one, and noted that signals were being exchanged between them.

It was now almost a certainty that the vessels were those of the enemy. Forward the men were slapping one another on the back, and rough jokes and laughter resounded from the gun-deck, where the boys and stewards were clearing away the mess-dishes and stowing away all gear, in preparation for a possible action. On the quarter-deck wagers were freely offered on the character of the vessels, which looked to be frigates of 50 and 38. Stewart glanced aloft at the straining spars and smiled confidently.

By this time the nearer frigate bore down within the range of the glasses, and they could see that she was painted with double yellow lines, and apparently cut for fifty guns. As it afterwards appeared, she had a double gun-streak, false ports having been painted in her waist. Lieutenant Ballard, who had been carefully examining her with his glasses, remarked to the captain, who stood at his elbow, that she must at least be a fifty-gun ship. Stewart, after a long look, suggested that she was too small to be a ship of that class. “However,” he continued, “be this as it may, you know I have promised you a fight before the setting of to-morrow’s sun; and if we do not take it, now that it is offered, we may not have another chance. We must flog them when we catch them, whether she has one gun-deck or two.”

Signals were now constantly interchanged between the vessels, and by three o’clock the “Constitution” had come so near that they were plainly made out to be two small frigates, or a frigate and a sloop-of-war, both close hauled on the starboard tack. The “Constitution,” having the windward gauge, now manœuvred more carefully, and, hauling her sheets flat aft, pointed up so as to keep the advantage of position.

As the vessels came nearer and an action became certain, the stewards came on deck with the grog-buckets, in accordance with the time-honored rule on men-of-war by which the liquor is served before a fight. Instructions had been given that, as the battle was to be with two ships, a double portion of the drink should be served. But just as the stewards were about to ladle it out an old quartermaster rolled down from forward, and saying, “We don’t want any ‘Dutch courage’ on this ship,” with a great kick sent the bucket and its contents flying into the scuppers.

About four o’clock the westernmost ship signalled her consort and bore down to leeward to join her. The “Constitution” now set her stu’n-sails and went bearing down after them at a strain that seemed to menace her spars. She was rapidly drawing up with them when, just as she got well within range of the long guns, there was a sharp crack far aloft and the royal-mast snapped off at the cap. It was a doubtful moment, for the Englishmen crowded on all sail to escape, and rapidly drew together, flinging out their English ensigns as though in triumph.

But they did not reckon on the superb seamanship of the “Constitution.” In a trice the men were aloft with their axes, the wreck was cleared away, new gear was rove, and in half an hour a new mast was aloft and another royal was spread to the breeze.

But the ships had been enabled to close with each other, and Stewart had lost the opportunity of attacking them separately. They made one ineffectual effort to get the weather-gauge, but, finding that the “Constitution” outpointed them, they settled back in line of battle and cleared ship for action. Stewart immediately showed his colors and beat to quarters.

The fog had blown away and the sun had set behind a lowering bank of clouds. The wind still blew briskly, but the “Constitution” only pitched slightly, and offered a fairly steady platform for the guns, which were now trained upon the nearest vessel, but a few hundred yards broad off the port-bow. The darkness fell rapidly, and the moon came out from behind the fast-flying cloud-bank and silvered the winter twilight, gleaming fitfully on the restless water, a soft reproach upon the bloody work that was to follow.

At a few moments past six the long guns of the “Constitution’s” port-battery opened fire, and the battle was on. Both ships responded quickly to the fire, and for fifteen minutes the firing was so rapid that there was not a second’s pause between the reverberations. The English crews cheered loudly. But the gunners of the “Constitution” went on grimly with their work, sponging and loading as though at target-practice, content to hear the splintering of the timbers of the nearest vessel as the double-shotted thirty-twos went crashing into her. Before long the smoke became so thick that the gunners could not see their adversaries; and Stewart, ordering the batteries to cease firing, drew ahead and ranged abeam of the foremost ship, with his port-battery reloaded and double-shotted. He waited until he was well alongside before giving the order to fire, when he delivered such a terrible hail of round-shot, grape, and canister that the enemy staggered and halted like an animal mortally wounded. For the moment her battery was entirely silenced, and during the lull they could hear the cries of the wounded as they were carried below to the cockpit. The English cheered no longer. Another such a broadside might have finished her; but before Stewart could repeat it he saw that the other ship was luffing up so as to take a raking position under the stern of the “Constitution.”

Nowhere did the wonderful presence of mind of Stewart and the splendid seamanship of his crew show to better advantage than in the manœuvre which followed. He quickly braced his main- and mizzen-topsails flat to the mast, let fly all forward, and actually backed down upon the other enemy, who, instead of being able to rake the “Constitution,” found her emerging from the smoke abreast his bows in a position to effectually rake him. The “Constitution’s” guns by this time had all been reloaded, and a terrific fire swept fore and aft along the decks of the Englishman, tearing and splintering her decks and dismounting many of the guns of both batteries. So terrible was the blow that she faltered and fell off. Before she could recover from the first, another terrible broadside was poured into her.

The other vessel now tried to luff up and rake the “Constitution” from the bows. But the American filled away immediately and let them have her other broadside. Side by side the “Constitution” and the larger ship sailed, firing individually and by battery as fast as they could sponge and load. Here and there a shot would strike within the stout bulwarks of the American; and one of these tore into the waist, killing two men and smashing through a boat in which two tigers were chained. A sailor named John Lancey, of Cape Ann, was carried below horribly mutilated. When the surgeon told him he only had a few moments to live, he said, “Yes, sir, I know it; but I only want to know that the ship has struck.” Soon after, when he heard the cheers at her surrender, he rose from his cot, and, waving the stump of his blood-stained arm in the air, gasped out three feeble cheers and fell back lifeless.

Having silenced the larger vessel, Stewart immediately hurried to the smaller one, which had been firing through the smoke at the gun-flashes. The “Constitution” fell off, and, gathering headway, succeeded in getting again across her stern, where she poured in two raking broadsides, which practically cut her rigging to pieces. Returning to the larger vessel, Stewart rounded to on her port-quarter and delivered broadside after broadside with such a telling effect that at 6.50 she struck her colors.

The other vessel having in a measure refitted, came down gallantly but foolishly to the rescue of her consort. The “Constitution” met her with another broadside, which she tried to return, and then spread all sail to get away. But the American ship could outsail as well as outpoint her, and under the continuous fire of the bow-chasers of the “Constitution” she became practically helpless, and at about ten o’clock, when the dreaded broadside was about to be put into play again, she surrendered.

It was a wonderful battle. In a fight between one sailing-ship and two the odds were four-fold on the side of the majority. For it was deemed next to impossible to rake without being doubly raked in return. This obvious disadvantage was turned by Stewart to his own account by what critics throughout the world consider to be the finest manœuvring ever known in an American ship in action. He fought both his broadsides alternately, and luffed, wore, or backed his great vessel as though she had been a pleasure-boat. Neither of his adversaries succeeded in delivering one telling raking broadside. She seemed to be playing with them, and skilfully presented her reloaded guns to each vessel as it attempted to get her at a disadvantage.

The larger vessel was discovered to be the “Cyane,” 32, Captain Gordon Falcon, and the smaller one the sloop-of-war “Levant,” 21, Captain George Douglass. The “Constitution” had fifty-one guns, while the Englishmen had fifty-three; but of the “Constitution’s” crew four were killed and ten wounded. On the “Cyane” and “Levant” thirty-five were killed and forty-two were wounded.

After the battle, while the two English captains were seated in Stewart’s cabin dining with their victor, a discussion arose between them in regard to the part each had borne in the battle, while Stewart listened composedly. Their words became warmer and warmer, and each accused the other in plain terms of having been responsible for the loss of the vessels. At a point when it seemed as though the bitterness of their remarks bade fair to result in blows, Stewart arose and said, dryly, —

“Gentlemen, there is no use getting warm about it; it would have been all the same, whatever you might have done. If you doubt that, I will put you all on board again, and we can try it over.”

The invitation was declined in silence.

For this gallant action Congress awarded Stewart a sword and a gold medal, and “Old Ironsides” soon after the war was over was temporarily put out of commission. Her day of fighting was over. But years after, refitted and remodelled, she served her country in peace as gracefully as she had served it gloriously in war.

THE “CONSTITUTION” AND THE “GUERRIERE”

By the exercise of remarkable seamanship Captain Hull had succeeded in escaping from the British squadron, under Broke, off the Jersey coast. But he came so near capture that the secretary of the navy succeeded in frightening himself and the whole Cabinet at Washington into such a state of timidity that, had they had their way, no war-vessel flying the American flag would have been allowed to leave any Atlantic seaport and put to sea.

Captain Hull had carried the “Constitution” into Boston, where, if the orders had reached him in time, the secretary would have peremptorily bidden him to remain. But Hull was not in a humor to be inactive. What he wanted was a fight, yard-arm to yard-arm, with a frigate of the enemy, preferably the “Guerriere,” Captain Richard Dacres, who had sailed boldly up and down the coast with an open challenge to any frigate flying the American flag. Though very warm personal friends ashore, both Hull and Dacres had high opinions of the merits of their own vessels. Dacres voiced the prevailing sentiment of the officers of his navy when he spoke of the “Constitution” as a bunch of pine boards which the British would knock to pieces in twenty minutes. Hull said little; but several months before war was declared had met Dacres, and wagered him a cocked hat on the result should the “Constitution” and the “Guerriere” ever meet. With the timidity at home, neither he nor any American officers had much encouragement. There was no confidence in the navy at this period, and the insults they heard from abroad were not half so hard to bear as the thinly-veiled indifference they met at home.

But Hull knew he had a good ship and a good crew. He had trained them himself, and he knew what they could do aloft and at the guns. Moreover, he knew what he could do himself. The navy was small, but the men who had smelt powder in the Revolution and before Tripoli were a stalwart set and had done deeds of gallantry that had set the greatest admirals of Europe by the ears. Many ingenious contrivances had been adopted, to be now tried for the first time. Sights had been put upon the guns, and the gun-captains knew better how to shoot than ever before. So, without waiting for the orders from the secretary which he knew would hold him in port indefinitely, Hull sailed on the first fair wind and uncompromisingly put out to sea. If the orders came, he wouldn’t be back to obey unless he had captured a British frigate, or, at the very least, some merchant prizes. If he did not succeed, it meant that he might be hung or shot for sailing without orders. But even this sword of Damocles did not deter him. He would do his best, at any rate, and made a quiet seaman’s petition to the God of winds and seas to send him the “Guerriere.”

Thinking to find a better opportunity towards Halifax, where many British men-of-war and merchantmen put in, Hull sailed to the northward, and cruised as far as the mouth of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The frigate “Spartan,” 38, was in those waters; but after watching for her for some days, he stood out to sea. On the 15th of August he sighted five vessels. The “Constitution” set all sail and rapidly came up with them. Four of them scattered, leaving the fifth, a brig, on fire. Hull made for the largest of the others, and found her to be an English merchantman in charge of an American prize-crew. The “Constitution” saved her from capture at the hands of the other vessels. Before night another vessel was overhauled, and she was found to be the American “Adeline,” in the hands of a prize-crew from the British “Avenger.” One vessel was destroyed and the other was sent to Boston in charge of Midshipman Madison and five men, carrying the first suggestion of the brilliant news which was to follow.

A few days later the “Constitution” chased and overhauled the American privateer “Decatur,” which, believing her to be an English cruiser, had thrown overboard almost all of her guns. The captain of the privateer had good news, though. He had sighted an English frigate the day before, sailing southward under easy sail. Hull immediately set everything the “Constitution” could carry and gave the quartermasters a course which should enable him to come up with her by the following day.

The next morning dawned clear, but the breezes fell light, and not until the morning watch was there wind enough to send the American frigate bowling along on her course under top-gallant-sails and royals. Hull took the deck for awhile himself and sent lookouts to the fore- and main-royal-yards to keep a sharp lookout. With moderate luck they should catch up with her. And then Hull felt that he would make the “Constitution” the most talked about ship afloat or else he would change the timidity at the Navy Department into a panic for which there would be some reason.

If the ship were the “Guerriere,” he promised himself a new hat.

Not a sail hove in sight until towards two in the afternoon, when a lookout aloft shouted, in a voice that was taken up by four hundred throats on the spar- and gun-decks, —

“Sail ho!”

In a moment the watch below came rushing up. So great was the excitement that many of them went half-way to the tops, without orders or permission, to view the stranger. In an hour the stronger glasses proved her plainly to be a frigate, and the “Constitution” eased off her sheets, and with the bit in her teeth boomed steadily down for her. For an hour the two ships moved in this position, the stranger making no effort to escape and leaving her colors, which were soon made out to be British, flying in defiance. In fact, as soon as she discovered the “Constitution” to be an American frigate she took in sail, laid her maintop-sail to the mast, and silently awaited the approach. Hull sailed on until within about three miles of the enemy, when he sent his light yards down, reefed his topsails, and cleared ship for action.

An American-built frigate was for the first time to test her stanchness against a worthy representative of the mistress of the seas and “Terror of the World.” Most of the crew had never been in close action before. The chase of the “Constitution” had tired their hearts less than their bodies, for the firing of the British squadron had been at a very long range, and there was never a time when their ship was in danger from the cannonading of the enemy. There was not a qualm or a fear to be seen on the faces either of grizzled seaman or powder-boy, and they went to quarters with enthusiasm.

But underlying it all there was a note of gravity. They were going to bring an American ship into action with a frigate whose navy had scored hundreds of victories over the vessels of all the great nations of the earth. They half wondered at their audacity and that of their captain in defying a frigate so redoubtable as the “Guerriere,” for there seemed no further doubt that it was she. But they looked up at Hull, who was calmly pacing up and down the quarter-deck, taking a look now and then at the enemy through his glass, and their confidence came back to them. The excitement was intense, and one by one the men began throwing aside their shirts and drawing in the buckles of their cutlass-hangers, most of the gun-crews stripping themselves to the waist and casting aside their shoes to avoid slipping on the decks when the blood began to flow. More than one of them had his own private score to settle with the British navy. Many of them had been at one time or another taken off American merchant-ships and impressed into the service of the enemy, and some of them still bore upon their backs the scars of the bloody lashes of the relentless “Cat.” The father of Captain Hull had died in the pest-ship “Jersey,” in the Revolution, and the other officers had all some grievances of their own which made them look eagerly forward to the battle which they intended should mean victory or death.

On the “Guerriere” there was a feeling of unshaken confidence. That any calamity to their ship could be expected from an American-built vessel, manned by a crew collected haphazard among the merchant-ships of the Atlantic harbors, never for a moment occurred to them. When the drum beat to quarters, the men tumbled to their stations willingly enough, with no more trepidation than if they were going to target-practice. Captain Dacres summoned an American prisoner, the captain of the captured merchant-brig “Betsy,” and asked him what he thought of the vessel which was approaching. The skipper ventured that she was undoubtedly an American frigate. Captain Dacres replied with a smile, —

“She comes down a shade too boldly for an American.” And then added, “Well, the better he behaves the more honor we will have in taking him.”

As the “Constitution” bore down nearer, her ensign and jack flying proudly, there could no longer be any doubt as to her nationality and intentions, and he shouted to his crew, who stood at the guns, —

“There, my men, is a Yankee frigate. In forty-five minutes she is certainly ours. Take her in fifteen, and I promise you four months’ pay.”

Shortly after this Captain Hull was within two or three miles, and the “Guerriere” opened fire on the “Constitution,” to try the distance and get the range.

The shots fell short, but Hull took in his light sails and came down more warily under topsails. The “Constitution” fired a broadside, but these shots, too, dropped in the water between them. As he came nearer, the “Guerriere” squared away, wearing first to port and then to starboard, firing alternate broadsides and manœuvring to avoid being raked. He wanted to cripple the American’s rigging from a distance, if possible. But the shot all missed their mark, and the “Constitution” only replied with her bow-guns. Hull soon saw that this manœuvring might last the day out without coming to close quarters, so he hoisted his top-gallant-sails and made straight for the enemy.

Now the shot of the Englishman began coming aboard. Some of the standing rigging was cut away and the vessel was hulled several times. But the men, having carefully reloaded, stood silently at their guns, looking out through the ports at the “Guerriere,” which, enveloped in smoke, kept up a continuous fire. They looked anxiously at the short, stout, sturdy figure of Captain Hull, but he continued pacing the quarter-deck, making no sign that he was aware of the damage the shots were causing. In a moment the report of “Nobody hurt yet, sir,” ceased suddenly. A shot struck the “Constitution’s” starboard bulwarks up forward and sent a jagged hail of splinters among the crew of two of the guns of the first division. Two men were killed outright and one or two more were wounded by this shot, and as their shipmates saw the men carried below to the cockpit they moved uneasily, and several of the gun-captains wished to fire. Lieutenant Morris now, with a view to quieting them, strode aft to the quarter-deck, where Hull was still calmly pacing up and down, and said, —

“The enemy has killed two of our men. Shall we return it?”

“Not yet, sir,” replied the impenetrable Hull.

Morris returned to his station. But there is nothing more disorganizing to men than to be fired at and not have the opportunity of firing in return, and they besought Morris again to give the permission. Twice more the lieutenant went aft to the quarter-deck, and twice he got the same reply. Hull, like Paul Jones, believed in great broadsides at close quarters. This silence under galling fire was the greatest test of discipline an American crew had ever had. For in the heat of battle a man forgets to be afraid. That the men stood to it, speaks well for Hull’s training.

At last the “Constitution,” which had been drawing closer and closer, drew up to a position about forty yards off the “Guerriere’s” port-quarter, and Hull, waiting until his guns could all bear, stooped low, bursting his breeches from knee to waistband in the excitement of the moment, and gave vent to all the pent-up feelings of two hours in the hoarse order, —

“Now, boys, give it to them!”

It was a well-directed broadside.

The shots crashed along the line of bulwarks and sent showers of splinters flying over her spar-deck. The ships were so close together that the effect of those shots could be seen distinctly. Some of the splinters flew as high as the mizzen-top, and instantly the English cheering ceased and the shrieks and cries of the wounded rang out between the concussions. Dacres now, for the first time, must have realized how great the honor would be if he took the “Constitution.”

Nor did the action promise any sign of being over in fifteen minutes. So well aimed were the American guns that in a short time the enemy’s main-yard was shot away, and he was otherwise damaged severely both below and aloft. At a little after six a twenty-four pound shot went through the “Guerriere’s” mizzen-mast, and, swaying a moment, over it fell to starboard, making a wreck and drag which impeded the Englishman’s manœuvres. The seas pounded it against the sides of the ship and a hole was knocked under her stern, through which she began taking water badly. When the mizzen-mast fell, Hull threw off his hat, and shouted, —

“Hurrah, boys, we’ve made a brig of her!”

One of the seamen shouted back, —

“We’ll make a sloop of her soon, sir!”

And they did; for in a little while the foremast followed by the board. The wreck trailing in the water astern acted as a rudder to the “Guerriere,” and she swung across the wind. The “Constitution” forged ahead, and crossing her bows, poured in a raking broadside. Then swinging round to port, she sent in another as effective as the first. The ships were very close together, and a fire from a burning gun-wad broke out in the cabin of the American ship. This was quickly put out, however, by Lieutenant Hoffman of the after-gun division.

Both captains now decided to board, and the men were massed on the decks as they could be spared from the guns for the purpose. Dacres was on the point of sending his men across his bowsprit, but, finding the jackies of the “Constitution” ready to receive him, changed his mind. The sharpshooters in the tops of both vessels were firing into the black masses of men, and every shot told. Lieutenant Morris, on the “Constitution,” while attempting to take a few turns of rope around the bowsprit of the “Guerriere,” received a bullet through the body. William S. Bush, the first lieutenant of marines, while standing on the taffrail ready to board, was shot through the skull by a British marine, and instantly killed. John C. Alwyn, the sailing-master, at the same time received a ball through the shoulder. Captain Hull climbed up on the rail, when a Yankee seaman, putting his arms around him, dragged him down and out of danger.

“Not with them swabs on,” he said, pointing to Hull’s big bullion epaulettes. He would have been a certain mark for one of the sharpshooters of the enemy.

At about this time the flag of the “Constitution,” which had been nailed at the mizzen-truck, was shot down. But a young topman, named Hogan, shinned up the spar far aloft, and, though fired at repeatedly by the British marines, succeeded in replacing it amid the cheers of his companions.

On the “Guerriere” things were going badly. Captain Dacres had been shot in the back by one of the American marines, but he pluckily remained on deck. As the “Constitution” got clear again, both the mainmast and foremast of the “Guerriere,” which had been repeatedly cut by American shot, went over with a crash, and she lay on the wave completely helpless. This was less than half an hour after the “Constitution” sent in her terrible broadside.

The American ship drew off to a short distance to repair her damages, and in less than an hour returned, and sent Lieutenant Read in a cutter to discover if Captain Dacres had surrendered.

Dacres’s humiliation was complete, and he felt that further battle would only be the butchery of his own brave fellows.

Lieutenant Read hailed him to learn if he had surrendered.

“I don’t know that it would be prudent to continue the engagement any longer.”

“Do I understand you to say that you have struck?” asked Read.

“Not precisely; but I don’t know that it would be worth while to fight any longer.”

“If you cannot decide,” said the American, “I will return aboard my ship and resume the engagement.”

Dacres here called out hurriedly, —

“I am pretty much hors de combat already. I have hardly men enough to work a single gun and my ship is in a sinking condition.”

“I wish to know, sir,” demanded Read peremptorily, “whether I am to consider you as a prisoner of war or as an enemy. I have no time for further parley.”

Dacres paused, and then said, brokenly, “I believe now there is no alternative. If I could fight longer I would with pleasure, but I – I must surrender.”

When Dacres went up the side of the “Constitution” to surrender his sword he was treated in the manner befitting his rank by a generous enemy. Captain Hull assisted him to the deck, saying, anxiously, —

“Dacres, give me your hand; I know you are hurt.” And when the Englishman extended his sword, hilt forward, in formal surrender, Hull said, magnanimously, —

“No, no; I will not have the sword of a man who knows so well how to use it. But” – and his eyes twinkled merrily – “but I’ll thank you for that hat.” He had not forgotten the wager, if Dacres had.

The transferring of prisoners was at once begun, for it was seen that the “Guerriere” was a hopeless hulk, not fit to take to port. When this was all completed and every article of value taken from her, she was blown up, and the “Constitution” sailed for Boston.

She arrived at an opportune time. For Detroit had been surrendered without firing a shot in its defence, and the American arms on the Canadian frontier had otherwise met with disastrous failure. The “Constitution,” gaily dressed in flags, came up the harbor amid the booming of cannon and the wildest of excitement among the people. A banquet was given to the officers in Faneuil Hall, and from that time the American navy gained a prestige at home it has never since lost. Congress voted a gold medal to Captain Hull, silver ones to the officers, and fifty thousand dollars as a bonus to the crew.

The statistics of the fight are as follows:

The “Constitution” had fifty-five guns, the “Guerriere” forty-nine, sending shot weighing approximately seven hundred and six hundred pounds respectively. The “Constitution’s” crew numbered four hundred and sixty-eight; that of the “Guerriere” two hundred and sixty-three. The “Constitution” lost seven killed and seven wounded, and the “Guerriere” fifteen killed and sixty-three wounded. All authorities acknowledge that, other things being equal, the discrepancy in metal and crews hardly explains the difference in the condition of the vessels at the end of the battle.

THE “WASP” AND THE “FROLIC”

The American frigates “Constitution,” “Constellation,” and “United States” fought and won great battles where the metal and crews were equal or nearly equal, and proved beyond a doubt the advantage of American seamanship and gunnery over the British in the Naval War of 1812. But it remained for the little sloop-of-war “Wasp,” Captain Jacob Jones, to add the final evidence of Yankee superiority. Her action with the “Frolic” was fought under conditions so trying that it fairly ranks with the great frigate actions of our naval history.

The “Wasp” was only about one-sixth the size of the “Constitution.” She was about as big as the three-masted schooners which ply in and out of our Atlantic seaports to-day, and only carried one hundred and forty men. What she lacked in size she made up in personnel, and what she lacked in ordnance she made up in precision of fire. They must have been fine Jack tars and gallant fellows every one of them, for there was no chance for skulkers in that fight. The vessel could not have been handled or the guns served as they were with one man less.

It was off Albemarle Sound, in the rough end of a Hatteras gale, with a gun-platform which now rolled the gun-muzzles into the spume and then sent them skyward half-way to the zenith. It is a wonder that the gunners could hit anything at all; but almost every broadside told, and the hull of the “Frolic” was again and again riddled and raked fore and aft.

When the war broke out the “Wasp” was in European waters, carrying despatches for the government. She was immediately recalled, and in October, 1812, sailed from the Delaware to the southward and eastward to get in the track of the British merchantmen in the West India trade. On the 15th of October she ran into a gale of wind off the capes of the Chesapeake, and lost her jib-boom and two men who were working on it at the time. For two days and nights the little vessel tumbled about under storm-sails, but Captain Jacob Jones was one of the best seamen in the navy, and no further harm was done. On the night of the 17th the wind moderated somewhat, though the seas still ran high. At about half-past eleven a number of frigates were seen, and Captain Jones deeming it imprudent to bear down nearer until day should show him who the strangers were, sailed up to get the weather-gage and await the dawn. His forward rigging was disabled, and he had no wish to take chances with an enemy of greatly superior force.

The dawn came up clear and cold, and, as the darkness lifted, the crew of the “Wasp” could make out six fine merchantmen under convoy of a big brig. The brig was about the same size as the “Wasp,” and it was seen that several of the merchantmen mounted from eleven to eighteen guns each. Nevertheless, Jones sent his topmen aloft, and in a trice he had his light yards on deck and his ship reefed down to fighting-canvas. The vessel was rolling her bows half under, but the guns were cast loose and the decks cleared for action. The brig, too, showed signs of animation. Her men went aloft at about the same time as those of the “Wasp,” and soon she signalled her convoy to make all sail before the wind to escape.

The sea was so high that it was eleven o’clock before the vessels came within range of each other. Then on the English vessel the Spanish flag was run up to the gaff. But the Americans nevertheless held on a course which would soon bring the ships together. There were enough Englishmen in those waters for Jones to take chances of her being one of the enemy. By half-past eleven the ships were within speaking-distance, – two or three hundred feet apart, – and Captain Jones mounted the mizzen-rigging, lifting his voice so that it might be heard above the shrieking of the wind and sea, and shouted through his trumpet, —

“What ship is that?”

For answer the Spanish flag came down with a run, the British ensign was hoisted, and a broadside was fired. Just then a squall keeled the Englishman over to leeward, and the “Wasp” having the weather-gage, the shots whistled harmlessly overhead and through the rigging. The Yankee ship responded immediately. The gunners had been trained in all weathers to fire as their own vessel was about to roll downward on the wave towards their adversary. By this means the shots were more sure to go low in the enemy’s hull and to have the additional chance of the ricochet which would strike a glancing blow. They waited a second or so for this opportunity, and then sent their broadside of nine shots crashing through the hull of the “Frolic.”

The tumbling of the vessel sent the guns rolling about, and the tacklemen needed all their strength and skill to hold the guns in for serving and out for firing. But they were in no hurry. They worked as slowly and as surely as possible, taking every advantage of the roll of the vessel, training and aiming deliberately, and then firing at will. The Englishmen sent in three broadsides to two of the Yankees. But they fired from the hollow on the upward roll of the vessel and most of their shots went high, scarcely one of them striking the hull of the “Wasp.”

It is a wonderful thing to think even of these two little vessels, tossed about like billets of wood, the playthings of the elements, fighting a battle to the death with each other, ignoring the roaring of the sea and the hissing of the water which now and again seemed to completely engulf them in its foam. The waves came over the bows and waist of the “Wasp,” flooding the decks, overturning buckets and making division-tubs a superfluity. Sometimes it dashed in at the leeward ports, dipping the handles of the sponges and rammers, and even burying the muzzles of the guns, which the next moment would be pointing at the main-truck of their adversary. The powder-boys, wet to the waist, stumbled over the decks with their powder-charges under their jackets, and, though buffeted about and knocked down repeatedly, kept the men at the guns plentifully supplied with ammunition.

Although the British were firing rapidly and the shots were flying high, they began doing great damage in the rigging of the American. A few minutes after the battle was begun a shot from the “Frolic” struck the maintop-mast of the “Wasp” just above the cap, and it fell forward across the fore-braces, rendering the head-yards unmanageable for the rest of the action. A few minutes later other shots struck the mizzen-top-gallant-mast and the gaff, and soon almost every brace was shot away. The “Frolic” had been hulled repeatedly, but aloft had only lost her gaff and head-braces. In a quiet sea it would have been bad enough to lose the use of the sails, but in a gale of wind manœuvring became practically impossible. The wind was blowing fiercely so both vessels drove on before it, keeping up the cannonading whenever a gun would bear, and pouring in from the tops a fire of musketry upon the officers and men upon the decks.

The “Wasp,” having squared forward by the dropping of her maintop-mast across the fore-braces, no longer sailed on the wind, and in a moment drew forward, gradually approaching across the bows of the “Frolic,” which, having lost the use of her head-sails, could not sheer off. Captain Jones was quick to see his advantage, and ran the enemy’s bowsprit between the main- and mizzen-masts of the “Wasp.” The vessels now began striking and grinding against each other furiously, as though by a test of the stanchness of their timbers to settle the battle between them. The men who were loading two of the port broadside guns of the “Wasp” struck the bow of the “Frolic” with their rammers and found themselves looking into the forward ports of the enemy. The guns were loaded with grape, and after the ships crashed together were fired directly through those forward ports of the “Frolic,” raking her from stem to stern in a frightful manner.

The next wave tore the ships apart, and the “Wasp” forged ahead, the bowsprit of the Englishman catching in the mizzen-shrouds, where Lieutenant James Biddle and a party of officers and seamen were awaiting the order to board. In this position the bowsprit of the “Frolic” was pounding terribly upon the poop of the “Wasp.” At every send of the waves the bows of the Englishman would fall as the stern of the American rose, and it seemed as though both ships would be torn to pieces. The men of the “Wasp” had wished to board, the moment the ships had come together, and crowded along the hammock-nettings hardly to be restrained. But Captain Jones, knowing the advantage of his raking position, wanted to send in another broadside. He called the men back to the guns, but they were too intent upon their object. One brawny fellow, named Jack Lang, who had been impressed into the British service, made a spring, and catching a piece of gear, swung himself up on the bowsprit and clambered down alone, his cutlass in his teeth, to the enemy’s deck. The “Wasp’s” men cheered vigorously, and, leaving their guns, rushed aft to follow him. Captain Jones, seeing that they would not be denied, then gave the order to Lieutenant Biddle to board.

Biddle, cutlass in hand, jumped upon the nettings to lead the men. Midshipman Yorick Baker, being too small to clamber up alone, and seeing Biddle’s coat-tails flapping in the wind, seized hold of them, one in each hand. He did not want to be left behind, and thought he might trust to the impetuosity of his superior officer to land him successfully among the first on the deck of the enemy. But just then a terrific lurch threw Biddle off his balance, and they both came violently to the deck. They were up again in a second, however, and with Lieutenant George W. Rogers and a party of seamen finally reached the bowsprit of the “Frolic.”

Upon the fo’c’s’le of the enemy stood Jack Lang, swinging to the motion of the brig, his cutlass at his side, looking aft at a scene of carnage that was hardly imaginable. All the fierceness had died out of him, for he looked around at Biddle and grinned broadly. The decks were covered with the dead and dying, who tossed about in the wash of bloody water with every heave of the ship. The decks, masts, bulwarks, and rails were torn to ribbons, huge jagged splinters projecting everywhere. Guns, tubs, sponges, rammers, and solid shot were adrift, pounding from one side of the wreck to the other. No one moved to secure them, for only half a dozen men stood upright. At the wheel an old quartermaster, badly wounded, swung grimly, ready to die at his post. Behind him an English lieutenant, bleeding from ghastly wounds, clutched at a stanchion for support. Two other officers stood near, and one or two jackies glared forward at the Americans. There was no sign of resistance, and the wave of pity which came over Biddle and his officers swept away all desire for battle. The British flag was still flying. No one seemed to have the strength to haul it down; so Biddle went aft and lowered it to the deck. In a few moments the masts fell, and she lay a useless hulk wallowing upon the waves, which, more sure of their prey, dashed against her torn sides, widening the gashes made by her indomitable enemy, and at times making clean breaches over her bulwarks, tearing loose her boats and otherwise completing her destruction.

Under the conditions, it seemed hardly credible that such injury could have been inflicted in so short a time, for the battle had lasted only forty-three minutes. The “Frolic” had twenty-two guns, while the “Wasp” had only eighteen. The crew of the “Frolic” was less than of the “Wasp,” the best authorities estimating it at one hundred and ten, against one hundred and thirty-eight of the “Wasp.” But even here the great loss and damage to the “Frolic” can be explained in no way save that the Americans were superior gunners and seamen. The “Wasp” lost five killed and five wounded, and these men were most of them shot while aloft trying to refit gear. The “Frolic” lost fifteen killed and forty-seven wounded, making a total of sixty-two against ten of the “Wasp.”

But Jacob Jones’s victory was not to prove profitable, save in the great moral influence it exercised in England and America. He placed a crew upon the prize, and, having cleared away his wreck and refitted his rigging, tried to make sail away after the fleet of merchantmen, which by this time were nearly hull down on the horizon. But a great British seventy-four, the “Poictiers,” hove in sight, and before Jones could get away he found himself under her guns a prisoner. Captain Beresford, of the line-of-battle ship, took the sloop-of-war to Bermuda, and there a garbled report of the action between Captain Whinyate’s and Captain Jones’s vessels was written. But the American captain and his gallant crew were soon exchanged, and returned home, where their victory had been given its true value. They received twenty-five thousand dollars from Congress as prize-money, and a gold medal was given to Captain Jones and a silver one to each of the officers. The legislature of Pennsylvania gave Lieutenant Biddle a sword for his gallantry.

THE “CONSTITUTION” AND THE “JAVA”

At the beginning of the war of 1812 there were but three first-class frigates in our navy, and but five vessels of any description were fit to go to sea. But the war with Tripoli and the gallant deeds of the American officers had made the service popular with the public. In March, 1812, an act was passed which appropriated money to put all these vessels in condition to meet the enemy on a more equal footing, and a naval committee was formed to deal with the emergency. Langdon Cheves was appointed chairman, and he took hold of the great task of rebuilding and regenerating the naval service with enthusiasm and good judgment. The result was that the committee expressed the opinion “that it was the true policy of the United States to build up a navy establishment, as the cheapest, the safest, and the best protection to their sea-coast and to their commerce, and that such an establishment was inseparably connected with the future prosperity, safety, and glory of the country.”

When war was declared, the “Constitution” was in good condition, but the “Chesapeake” and the “Constellation” were not seaworthy. These were recommended to be immediately put in condition, and ten other frigates, averaging thirty-eight guns each, to be built. There was no difficulty in raising the crews for these vessels. Owing to the impressment of American and other seamen into the British service, the Cross of St. George had come to be so hated by the fishermen, coastwise sailors, and merchantmen that they sailed, drove, or walked to Philadelphia, Baltimore, and the other places where the frigates were fitting out, eager to sign the articles which made them American men-o’war’s-men. They were not drafted into the service like many of the British Jackies, at the point of the pistol, but came because they wanted to, and because with the building up of a new navy there came a chance to see the flag they hated trailed in defeat. That and nothing else was the reason for the wonderful success of American arms upon the sea during the war of 1812. The American officers, smarting under past indignities to the service and to themselves, went into the many actions with determination and enthusiasm, combined with the experience of a rough-and-tumble sea, – experience which with anything like an equal force meant either victory or absolute destruction.

The “Constitution,” under Hull, had escaped from the British squadron, under Broke, off the Jersey coast, had defeated the frigate “Guerriere,” and in all her history had shown herself to be a lucky ship. William Bainbridge had been given the command of the “Constellation,” but, arriving at Boston, Hull had found it necessary to give up his command, and Bainbridge immediately applied for “Old Ironsides.”

The victories of the American frigates “Constitution” and “United States” over the British “Guerriere” and “Macedonian” had aroused great enthusiasm throughout the country, and the government had decided to change its timorous policy. Hoping to draw some of the British vessels away from the coast and cause them to be distributed over a wider horizon, expeditions were arranged to strike the enemy at many distant points. Bainbridge’s orders were to sail for the Indian Ocean and capture or destroy as many English merchant-vessels as possible. His squadron, besides the “Constitution,” 44, consisted of the “Essex,” 32, Captain David Porter, and the “Hornet,” 18, Master-Commandant James Lawrence. Bainbridge and Lawrence put to sea from Boston on the 26th of October, while Porter left the Delaware on the 24th to rendezvous at Porto Praya, on the South American coast.

A few days later, H. M. S. “Java,” a thirty-eight-gun frigate, Captain Henry Lambert, having two merchant-ships under convoy, sailed from Portsmouth, England, for India. She also had as passengers the newly-appointed governor of India, Lieutenant-General Thomas Hislop, and many naval and army officers, who were being carried out to their posts.

The “Constitution,” arriving at Porto Praya, and failing to find Porter in the “Essex,” put to sea again, stopping at Fernando de Noronha in the hope of meeting her there. Lawrence, in the “Hornet,” challenged the British sloop-of-war “Bonne Citoyenne” to single combat; but her commander declined, in view of the presence of the “Constitution.” Bainbridge wrote that he would not interfere, and pledged him his honor to give the Englishman the opportunity to fight the “Hornet” to the death. Hoping to bring the action about, Bainbridge sailed away, and remained four days. But the British captain was determined not to fight, and Lawrence was thus denied the opportunity he afterwards had with the ill-fated “Chesapeake.”

Near the end of December, 1812, the “Constitution” was cruising off the coast of Brazil, about thirty miles from Bahia. The wind was light from the northeast, and Bainbridge was moving under short sail. “Old Ironsides,” a ready sailer when in condition, had been off the stocks so long and was so befouled by her stay in tropical waters that she moved rather sluggishly, and had not the capacity for legging it that she had when Hull had carried her from under the guns of the British squadron. Her sails were patched and her rigging was old, but Bainbridge had done all he could with her, and his men were full of confidence. She was the “Constitution,” and that was enough for them. They only wanted an opportunity to repeat or surpass some of her previous exploits.

They had not long to wait. At nine o’clock on the morning of December 29, the man at the fore-crosstrees passed the cry of “Sail-ho,” and soon from the deck two sails could be seen to the north, near the coast. They were both made out to be full-rigged ships, one standing in cautiously for the land and the other keeping a course out to sea, pushing down gallantly under a full press of canvas. The one inshore was the American ship “William,” which had been captured by the British, and the other was the “Java.” The jackies who lined the nettings of the “Constitution” soon discovered that their wishes were to be granted, for the larger ship was evidently determined to come up, and could be nothing but a man-of-war looking for a fight.

By about eleven Captain Bainbridge took in his royals and went about on the other tack. The Englishman was coming nearer now, and hoisted the private signals, English, Spanish, and Portuguese, in succession. Bainbridge hoisted the private signal of the day, and finding that it was not answered, cleared ship for action immediately. Then, wishing to draw his enemy from his consort, he set his mainsails and royals and stood out to sea. The “Java” came up rapidly, and made sail in a parallel course. Finding that the other ship did not follow, and desiring to make the other vessel disclose her identity, Bainbridge showed his colors, – his broad pennant at the main, the Stars and Stripes at the peak, another at the maintop-gallant-mast, and the American jack at the fore. This was shortly followed by his adversary, who hoisted an English ensign and displayed a private signal.

All this time the “Java” was rapidly gaining on the “Constitution,” and Bainbridge, finding that he was outsailed, took in his royals and went about on the other tack, so as to pass within pistol-shot of the other.

The “Constitution,” still a mile to leeward, soon fired a shot across the “Java’s” bows to induce her to show her colors, which she had hauled down again. This had the desired effect, for the bits of bunting went up with a run, and a whole broadside was fired at the “Constitution.” But the range was too great for successful marksmanship, both these shots and those fired by the “Constitution” in return dropping harmlessly alongside.

By a little after two o’clock the frigates were within half a mile of each other, and the action then began with great spirit. The Englishman got the range first, and sent in a broadside which hulled the “Constitution” and killed and wounded several of her men. It soon became evident to Bainbridge that Captain Lambert’s guns carried better than his own, so began luffing up repeatedly in order to shorten the distance for an effective broadside. He was sure of his marksmanship if once his men got the range, for the same gun-captains were with him that had helped Hull to her great victory over the “Guerriere.” It was difficult to draw up, as the Englishman was forging ahead with the evident desire to sail close to the wind and keep the weather-gage at all hazards. The “Constitution” could only luff up at opportune moments, for Lambert’s position was one which would enable him to rake the “Constitution” from stem to stern if he luffed when the broadside was ready. But he edged up cautiously, and soon the vessels were but musket-shot apart. A continuous fire now began, and the wind being light, both vessels were soon so shrouded in smoke that only at intervals could the gunners make out their adversaries. Along they sailed, side by side, giving and receiving tremendous volleys. About this time a solid shot went crashing along the quarter-deck of the “Constitution” and, striking her wheel, smashed it to pieces. The gear had been rove below, however, and the ship throughout the remainder of the battle was steered by means of tackles on the berth-deck. The captain’s orders were shouted down through the after-hatch and repeated by a line of midshipmen to the men at the tackles.

Bainbridge, in full uniform, stood by the weather-rigging at the time the disabling shot came aboard, and a small copper bolt drove through the upper part of his leg, inflicting a bad wound. But fearing that if he left the deck his men might lose some of the ardor with which they were fighting, he would not go below though frequently urged so to do. Instead of this he bound it up with his handkerchief, and remained at his post, his epaulettes a fair mark for the sharpshooters in the tops of the enemy. His men down in the waist of the “Constitution” looked now and again at the imposing figure by the mizzen-mast, and bent to their work with a will, firing as rapidly as their guns could be loaded. The distance between the ships was now so short that all the smaller guns and carronades could be used, and a rapid and well-directed fire was kept up both upon the hull and the spars of their adversary.

The “Java,” by her superior sailing qualities, was enabled to reach well forward on the “Constitution’s” bow when she eased off her sheets to round down across the bows of the American and rake. But Bainbridge, in spite of the disadvantage of wrecked steering-gear, was too quick for her. He put his helm up, and wore around in the smoke, thus keeping his broadside presented. The Englishman at last succeeded in getting under the “Constitution’s” stern and pouring in a broadside at close range. But, fortunately, comparatively little damage was done. The superiority of the gunnery of the Americans, save for a few of the Englishman’s well-directed shots, had been from the first far superior to that of the Englishmen. The fire of the “Java” was far less rapid and less careful than that of the “Constitution.” Had the gunnery been equal, the story of the fight would have had a different ending.

But the Americans labored under a great disadvantage, and Captain Bainbridge, determined to close with the enemy at all hazards, put his helm down and headed directly for the enemy, thus exposing himself to a fore-and-aft fire, which might have been deadly. But for some reason the Englishman failed to avail himself of this opportunity, only one 9-pounder being discharged. When near enough, the “Constitution” rounded to alongside and delivered her entire starboard broadside, which crashed through the timbers of the “Java” and sent the splinters flying along the entire length of her bulwarks. The shrieks of the injured could be plainly heard in the lulls in the firing, and soon the bowsprit and jib-boom of the enemy were hanging down forward, where they lay, with the gear of the head-sails and booms in a terrible tangle. With this misfortune the “Java” lost her superiority in sailing, and this was the turn in the action. Quickly availing himself of this advantage, Bainbridge again wore in the smoke before Captain Lambert could discover his intentions, and, getting under the “Java’s” stern, poured in a rapid broadside, which swept the decks from one end to the other, killing and wounding a score of men. Then sailing around, he reloaded, and fired another broadside from a diagonal position, which carried away the “Java’s” foremast and otherwise wrecked her.

Captain Lambert, now finding his situation becoming desperate, determined to close with the “Constitution” and board her. He tried to bear down on her, but the loss of his head-yards and the wreck on his forecastle made his vessel unwieldy, and only the stump of his bowsprit fouled the mizzen-chains of the American vessel. The American topmen and marines during this time were pouring a terrific fire of musketry into the mass of men who had gathered forward on the English vessel. An American marine, noting the epaulettes of Captain Lambert, took deliberate aim, and shot him through the breast. Lambert fell to the deck, and Lieutenant Chads assumed the command. The Englishmen, disheartened by the loss of their captain, still fought pluckily, though the wreck of the gear forward and the loss of their maintop-mast seriously impeded the handling of the guns. At each discharge their sails and gear caught fire, and at one time the “Java’s” engaged broadside seemed a sheet of flame. At about four o’clock her mizzen-mast, the last remaining spar aloft, came down, and she swung on the waves entirely dismasted. It seemed impossible to continue the action, as but half a dozen guns could be brought to bear.

The “Constitution,” finding the enemy almost silenced and practically at her mercy, drew off to repair damages and re-reeve her gear. Bainbridge had great confidence in the look of the “Constitution,” as, to all outward appearances unharmed, she bore down again and placed herself in a position to send in another broadside. His surmise was correct, for the one flag which had remained aloft was hauled down before the firing could be resumed.

Lieutenant George Porter, of the “Constitution,” was immediately sent aboard the Englishman. As he reached the deck he found the conditions there even worse than had been imagined by those aboard the “Constitution.” Many of the broadside guns were overturned, and, though the wreck had been partially cleared away, the tangle of rigging was still such that the remaining guns were practically useless. The dead and wounded literally covered the decks, and as the lieutenant went aboard the dead were being dropped overboard. The loss of her masts made her roll heavily, and occasionally her broadside guns went under. Lambert was mortally wounded. Lieutenant Chads, too, was badly hurt. When he had assumed command, in spite of the fact that he knew his battle was hopeless, he had tried to refit to meet the American when she came down for the second time. He only struck his colors when he knew that further resistance meant murder for his own brave men. The “Java” was a mere hulk, and the hulk was a sieve.

Comparison of the injuries of the “Java” and “Constitution” is interesting. With the exception of her maintop-sail-yard, the “Constitution” came out of the fight with every yard crossed and every spar in position. The injuries to her hull were trifling. The “Java” had every stick, one after another, shot out of her until nothing was left but a few stumps. It might have been possible to have taken her into Bahia, but Bainbridge thought himself too far away from home; and so, after the prisoners and wounded had been removed to the “Constitution,” a fuse was laid, and the American got under weigh. Not long after a great volume of smoke went up into the air, and a terrific explosion was heard as the last of the “Java” sunk beneath the Southern Ocean.

When the “Constitution” arrived at Bahia, Captain Lambert was carried up on the quarter-deck, and lay near where Bainbridge, still suffering acutely from his wounds, had been brought. Bainbridge was supported by two of his officers as he came over to Lambert’s cot, for he was very weak from loss of blood. He carried in his hand the sword which the dying Englishman had been obliged to surrender to him. Bainbridge put it down beside him on his bed, saying, —

“The sword of so brave a man should never be taken from him.”

The two noble enemies grasped hands, and tears shone in the eyes of both. A few days afterwards the Englishman was put on shore, where more comfortable quarters were provided for him, but he failed rapidly, and died five days after.

The news of the capture of the “Java” created consternation in England. The loss of the “Guerriere” and the “Macedonian” were thought to have been ill-luck. But they now discovered an inkling of what they rightly learned before the war was over, – that the navy of the United States, small as it appeared, was a force which, man for man and gun for gun, could whip anything afloat.

When Bainbridge arrived in Boston he and his officers were met by a large delegation of citizens, and many festivities and dinners were held and given in their honor. The old “Constitution,” rightly deserving the attention of the government, was put in dry-dock to be thoroughly overhauled. Of the five hundred merchantmen captured by Americans, she had taken more than her share, and of the three frigates captured she had taken two.

THE LAST OF THE “ESSEX”

When Captain David Porter in the “Essex” failed to meet Captain Bainbridge in the “Constitution” off the Brazilian coast, and learned that the latter had captured the “Java” and returned to the United States, he was free to make his own plans and choose his own cruising-ground.

He captured an English vessel or so, but his ambition was to make a voyage which would result in the capture of as many vessels as could be manned from the “Essex.” He thought the matter over at length and then formulated a plan which few other men would have thought of. No large war-vessel of the American government had been in the South Pacific for some years, and now the English whalers and merchantmen pursued their trade unmolested, save by a few privateers which sailed haphazard in the waters along the coast. David Porter decided to round the Horn, thus cutting himself off from his nearest base of supplies, and live the best way he might off vessels captured from the enemy.

He knew that he could not hope for a hospitable reception at any port he visited, but if he could keep his magazine and store-rooms supplied, determined to capture or destroy every vessel flying the British flag in those waters.

He started on his long voyage at the end of January, 1813, during the Southern summer season, when the gales and hurricanes in that region are at their fiercest. He had not been at sea very long before the scurvy broke out on the ship, and it was only by the most rigorous discipline and cleanliness that the disease was kept under control. By the middle of February the “Essex” reached the Cape, and, the weather having been moderately free from squalls, they were congratulating themselves on avoiding the usual dangers of those waters when a storm came up which in a short time began to blow with hurricane force. Gale succeeded gale, followed by intervals of calm, but nothing terrifying occurred until towards the end of February, when a storm which exceeded all the others in its fierceness began to blow. They were near a barren country, and, even should they reach land, there was no possible chance of escaping the slow torture of death from hunger and thirst. Great gray waves, measuring hundreds of feet from crest to crest, swept them resistlessly on towards the menacing shore, which could be seen dimly through the driving spray frowning to leeward. Many of the waves broke clear over the little frigate, knocking in her ports, opening her timbers, battering her boats to pieces as they swung on the davits, and loosening her bowsprit and other spars so that they threatened at each movement to go by the board. The crew, weakened and disheartened by disease and the excess of labor, lost heart and considered the “Essex” a doomed ship. David Glascoe Farragut, then a midshipman aboard of her, afterwards wrote that never before had he seen good seamen so paralyzed by fear at the mere terrors of the sea. On the third day an enormous wave struck her fairly on the weather-bow and broadside, and she went over on her beam ends, burying her lee-bulwark in the foam. It looked for a moment as if she would never right herself. The ports on the gun-deck were all stove in and she seemed to be filling with water. The head-rails were swept away, and one of the cutters was lifted bodily from the davits and smashed against the wheel. The fellows there stood bravely at their posts, though thoroughly terrified at the position of the ship. The water poured down below, and the men on the gun-deck thought she was already plunging to the bottom. The grizzly boatswain, crazy with fear, cried out in his terror, —

“The ship’s broadside is stove in! We are sinking!”

That was the greatest of their dangers, though, and better days were in store for them. Early in March the “Essex” succeeded in reaching Mocha Island, and the men, starved on half and quarter rations, were sent ashore to hunt wild hogs and horses. These were shot in numbers and salted down for food. The crew soon regained their health and spirits, and Porter sailed away for Valparaiso, putting in there to refit his damaged rigging and spars.

And now began a cruise which is numbered among the most successful in the country’s history. Porter had been at sea but a few days when he overhauled a Peruvian privateer, the “Nereyda.” To his surprise, twenty-four American sailors were found prisoners aboard of her. When asked to explain, the Peruvian captain replied that as his country was an ally of Great Britain, and that as war was soon to be declared between Spain and America, he thought he would anticipate matters and be sure of his prizes. Porter, in forcible English, explained the Peruvian’s mistake, and, to make the matter more clear, threw all his guns and ammunition overboard, so that he might repent of his folly in a more diplomatic condition.

The Peruvian captain begrudgingly gave Porter a list of all the English vessels in those waters. The first one captured was the whaler “Barclay.” On the 29th of April the “Essex” took the “Montezuma,” with a cargo of fourteen hundred barrels of whale-oil. Later in the same day the “Georgiana” and the “Policy” were overhauled. These prizes, with their cargoes, in England were worth half a million dollars; but, better than money, they were plentifully supplied with ropes, spars, cordage, stores, and ammunition, of which Porter still stood badly in need.

Finding that the “Georgiana” was a fast sailer and pierced for eighteen guns, Porter decided to make use of her as a cruiser, and, fitting her up, placed Lieutenant Downes in command of her, with forty men for a crew. Then the “Essex” took the “Atlantic” and the “Greenwich.” With this very respectable squadron Porter sailed for the mainland, Lieutenant Downes in the “Georgiana” meanwhile capturing without great difficulty the “Catharine” and the “Rose.” A third vessel, the “Hector,” fought viciously, but was eventually secured after a stiff little battle.

Young Farragut had been made the prize-master of the “Barclay.” He was only twelve years old, but Captain Porter, who was very fond of him, was confident of his ability to bring the ship into port. The English captain had been persuaded to act as navigator; but once out of sight of the squadron he refused to sail for Valparaiso. He afterwards said it was merely to frighten the boy. But the boy did not frighten at all. Instead he called one of his best seamen to him and ordered sail made. Then he told the captain that if he did not go below and stay there he would have him thrown overboard. The Englishman retreated below precipitately, and Farragut brought the ship safely in, a first proof of the courage and skill he was to show in after-life. Few boys of twelve would have done it even in those days when midshipmen soon became men regardless of age.

The “Atlantic,” being reckoned the fastest vessel of her kind afloat in those waters, was now given to Downes, who had been promoted to master-commandant, and renamed the “Essex Junior.” She was given twenty guns and sixty men, and soon proved her worth. All of this time Porter had been self-supporting. Neither he nor his squadron had cost his government a penny in money, and the prizes he captured, including the “Charlton,” “Seringapatam,” “New Zealand,” and “Sir Andrew Hammond,” could not be reckoned much short of a million and a half of dollars, a tremendous sum in those days, when the pay of a captain of a naval vessel was only twelve hundred dollars, – less than the pay of a boatswain to-day.

But Porter grew tired of his easy victories over merchantmen and privateers. He had succeeded in frightening the ships of the British entirely from the ocean. His one ship, a small frigate, had complete control in the South Pacific, and the Admiralty wondered at the skill and ingenuity of a man who could manage his fleets so adroitly. They determined to capture him; and two smart ships, the “Phœbe” and the “Cherub,” were sent out for this purpose. Porter heard of their coming, and was willing enough to meet them if it were possible. He went to Nukahiva, in the Marquesas Islands, to put the “Essex” in thorough repair and give his men a rest. He remained there two months, sailing near the end of the year 1813 for Valparaiso, with the hope of their meeting the English cruisers.

The “Essex” had been there but a month when the “Essex Junior,” which was cruising in the offing in anticipation of the arrival of the British ships, signalled, “Two enemy’s ships in sight.” Half the crew of the “Essex” were ashore enjoying sailor-men’s liberty. Even if they all got aboard, it was fair to assume that they would be in no condition to fight should the Englishmen choose to violate the neutrality of the port by firing on them. Porter immediately fired a gun and hoisted the recall signal for all boats and men to return. The English captain, Hillyar, ran the “Phœbe” on the wind straight for the “Essex,” the “Cherub” following closely. But when they reached the anchorage, the “Essex” was ready for action and the crew were at their stations. The “Phœbe” went around under the quarter of the “Essex,” luffing up scarcely fifteen feet away. It was an exciting moment. Hillyar could see the men at their guns, and his ardor was perceptibly diminished. Had he given the order to fire then, he would have been raked fore and aft, and the tale of this last fight of the “Essex” might have had a different ending.

As it was, he jumped upon the nettings, and said, with distinguished politeness, —

“Captain Hillyar’s compliments to Captain Porter, and hopes he is well.”

Porter was well, but he was in no humor to bandy compliments.

“Very well, I thank you,” he replied; “but I hope you will not come too near, for fear some accident might take place which would be disagreeable to you.” And at a wave of his hand the kedge-anchors and grappling-irons were swung up to the yard-arms, ready to be dropped on the decks of the enemy. The men swarmed along the nettings, ready to jump aboard the Englishman as soon as she was close enough.

But Hillyar, not liking the looks of things, changed his tone considerably. He backed his yards hurriedly, and said in an excited manner, —

“I had no intention of getting aboard of you. I assure you that if I fall aboard it will be entirely accidental.”

“Well,” said Porter, “you have no business where you are. If you touch a rope-yarn of this ship I shall board instantly.”

Porter then hailed Downes on the “Essex Junior” and told him to be prepared to repel the enemy. The vessels were in a position to be almost at the mercy of the Americans. When the “Phœbe” ranged alongside, the crews could see each other through the ports, and laughed and made grimaces at one another. One young fellow in the “Essex,” who had come aboard drunk, stood at one of the guns, match in hand. He saw one of the English jackies grinning at him. He was primed for a fight, and yelled across, —

“I’ll stop your making faces, my fine fellow.” He leaned forward to apply the match to the vent, and was only saved from firing it in time by Lieutenant McKnight of the gun-division, who knocked him sprawling. Had that gun been fired, the “Phœbe” would have been taken.

There seems no doubt of Captain Hillyar’s previous intention to try to take the “Essex” as she lay, regardless of the neutrality. Captain Porter would have been justified if he had fired at that time.

But the Englishmen were willing to bide their time. Two more British ships were expected, and they felt sure of their prey.

A strange state of affairs now ensued. The officers meeting on shore exchanged the proper courtesies, and strict orders were issued to the men, who for a wonder were restrained from fighting. Porter flew from his foremast a great white burgee, bearing the legend, “Free Trade and Sailors’ Rights.” Captain Hillyar soon hoisted one in reply, “God and Country: British Sailors’ Best Rights. Traitors Offend Both.” Porter then had another painted, and sent it to the mizzen, which read, “God, Our Country, and Liberty. Tyrants Offend Them.”

These amenities had the effect of making the crew eager for a speedy settlement of the question. Once Captain Hillyar fired a gun in challenge; but upon Porter’s accepting it, the Englishman sailed down to his consort the “Cherub,” and Porter returned. The Englishman, in spite of his challenge, was not willing to fight a single battle.

Finally, Captain Porter, learning of the expected early arrival of the “Tagus,” 38, the “Raccoon,” and two other ships, determined to put to sea and there fight it out with the two frigates as best he might. The next day, the 28th of March, 1814, a squall came up, and the “Essex” lost one of her anchors and dragged the other out to sea. Not a moment was to be lost in getting sail on the ship, for he saw a chance to sail between the southwest point of the harbor and the enemy. Under close-reefed topsails Porter made a course which seemed likely to carry him just where he wanted to go, when a heavy squall struck the ship, carrying away the maintop-mast and throwing the men who were aloft on the top-gallant-yard into the sea.

This great misfortune at a time when there was at least a fighting chance of getting away put a different aspect upon the chances of the “Essex.” Both English vessels immediately gave chase, and Porter, failing to make his anchorage, ran for shore, to anchor there and fight it out to the last drop of blood. The “Phœbe” and the “Cherub,” bedecked with flags, came booming down to where Porter awaited them, flying flags from the stumps of his maintop-mast and at almost every point where he could run a halyard.

At about four o’clock the “Phœbe” selected a position under the stern of the “Essex,” and opened fire at long range. The “Cherub” stood off her bow. The fire of the “Phœbe” was terribly destructive, and few guns from the “Essex” could be brought to bear upon her. The “Cherub” fared differently; and, finding her position too hot, sailed around and took up a position by her consort, where a tremendous fire was poured in. Captain Porter, with great difficulty, had three of his long 12-pounders hauled into his after-cabin, and at last succeeded in opening such a fierce and well-aimed fire that the enemy wore about and increased the distance between them. The “Phœbe” had three holes in her water-line, had lost the use of her mainsail and jib, and had her fore-main- and mizzen-stays shot away. Her bowsprit was badly wounded, and she had other injuries below.

But the “Essex” was fighting against terrible odds. The springs on her cables were again and again shot away and the crew were being killed and wounded in great numbers. When the ships of the enemy returned and opened a galling fire from such a position that it could not be returned by the “Essex,” Porter determined to assume the aggressive. But when he attempted to make sail on his ship, he found that most of the running-gear had been cut away, only his flying-jib could be spread to the winds. But, nothing daunted, he cut his cable, and, spreading his tattered canvases the best way he could, made down for the “Cherub” until within range of the cannonades, where he gave the Englishman such a drubbing that he took to his heels and got out of range altogether. The “Phœbe” managed to keep her distance, and with her long guns kept sending in broadside after broadside, which swept the decks of the doomed “Essex” and mowed her men down like chaff. Captain Hillyar was taking no chances.

The slaughter on the “Essex” was horrible. One gun was manned by three crews, fifteen men being killed at it. Men were dying like sheep; but those who remained at the guns, and even the wounded, had no thought of surrender. A sailor named Bissley, a young Scotchman by birth, lost his leg. He lifted himself, and said to some of his shipmates, —

“I hope I have proved myself worthy of the country of my adoption. I am no longer of any use to you or her; so good-by.” And before he could be restrained he pushed himself through the port into the sea and was drowned.

Midshipman Farragut acted as captain’s aid, quarter-gunner, powder-boy, and anything that was required of him. He went below for some primers, when the captain of a gun was struck full in the face by a sixteen-pound shot, falling back upon the midshipman, spattering him with blood and tumbling them both down the hatch together. The blow stunned the midshipman for a moment; but when he recovered, he rushed again on deck. Captain Porter, seeing him covered with blood, asked him if he were wounded.

“I believe not, sir.”

“Then, where are the primers?”

This first brought him completely to his senses. He rushed below again and brought the primers up. Captain Porter fell, stunned by the windage of a shot, but got to his feet unaided.

Though most other men would have surrendered the ship, Porter made up his mind to run her towards the shore and beach her broadside on, fight until the last and then blow her to pieces. An explosion occurred below and a fire broke out in two places. The decks were so covered with dead and dying that the men who remained upright could scarcely move among them. The cockpit would hold not another wounded man, and the shots which came in killed men who were under the surgeon’s knife. Out of the two hundred and fifty-five souls who began the fight only seventy-five, including officers and boys, remained on the ship fit for duty. Many of the men, thinking the ship was about to blow up, had jumped overboard and had drowned or were struggling in the water in the attempt to swim to land. The long-range shots of the enemy were striking her at every fire. The Englishmen had the distance accurately and were battering her to pieces as though at target-practice.

Captain Porter, at last seeing that resistance was only a waste of life, called his officers into consultation. But one, Lieutenant McKnight, could respond, and at 6.20 P.M. the order was given to haul down the flag.

When the British boarding-officer came over the side, the sight of the carnage was so shocking that he had to lean against a gun for support. The force of the “Essex” was forty-six guns and two hundred and fifty-five men. That of the English, in conservative estimates, was seventy-three guns and four hundred and twenty-one men. The English lost five killed and ten wounded. The “Essex” fifty-eight killed, sixty-six wounded, and thirty-one missing.

Thus died the “Essex” in one of the bloodiest and most obstinate combats on record.