In ship and prison

During the month that now followed two interesting events took place. The first was the sale of all the prizes which had been sent into French ports, and the distribution of the money among our crew. I had supposed that Masters Goss and Webber and myself would not share in this distribution, as we had not been in the frigate when these vessels were captured. But the decision was that every man on the ship’s roster was entitled to his proportionate part, and so we, who had just returned from captivity, each received a tidy little sum.

The other event was the re-organization of our crew. Our first lieutenant had died from a wound he received by the bursting of a gun, so Master Welch was now advanced to the first place, Master Bates to the second, and Master Livingstone was sent down from Paris to fill the vacancy thus made, that of a third lieutenant. A young man named Philip Forrier was appointed midshipman in the place of Master LeMoyne, who had died at Halifax.

There was a more radical change in our noncommissioned officers, and an enlistment of a number of new men, including Master Blinn and old Pete Berry, who had escaped from the Saint George with me. This gave us a total crew of one hundred and forty-six men and boys, exclusive of our officers, and exclusive of our marines, of whom we had a full company.

The re-organization completed, on August first we put to sea again, this time homeward bound. For three weeks we sailed on our course, catching sight of but two vessels during the whole time, which were too far away for us to overhaul. Then our fortune changed and during the next week we captured a prize every day—all of which were manned with prize crews, and ordered to follow in the wake of the frigate.

The fleet made a fine spectacle, if I do say it, and there was an amount of prize money represented there to rejoice every sailor’s heart. Yet with the most of us I do not think that was the first thought. As good patriots we rejoiced that we were bearing home stores which would help to sustain and clothe an army of as true and faithful men as ever fought for home or native land.

I was put in command of the last prize, the brig Sally, bound from London to Pensacola, and having a cargo consisting of one hundred barrels of flour, two hundred bags of bread, one hundred and thirty-nine tierces of beef, three hundred barrels of pork, seventy firkins of butter and a large lot of liquors.

I am glad to be able to write that I took the craft safely into port, and had but one incident out of the usual order. We were experiencing quite a gale, and some of the sailors had been ordered aloft to reef the top-sails. One of them, Richard Jones by name, in some way lost his hold and came tumbling down head-first. As I saw him coming I was confident he would strike upon the deck and be killed. But just before he struck the brig lurched, and, clearing the larboard rail, he went overboard.

Knowing he could not swim, I ordered Quartermaster William Atkins, who was acting as my first officer, to heave to the vessel, and send out a boat. Then, throwing off my coat and boots, I plunged into the sea.

Rising to the surface I looked around for Master Jones, and caught sight of him a few fathoms away. He disappeared before I could reach him, and treading water I waited for him to re-appear. He came up for the last time, only a few feet away, and catching him by the collar I struggled to keep him above the waves until the boat could arrive.

Night was fast falling; the storm was increasing in violence; and the waves rolled so high that I was unable to see the vessel or the boat which I was sure had been lowered. Master Jones was unconscious, and hung a dead weight upon my arm. It was difficult to keep him and myself on the surface, and already I felt my own strength was fast failing. Unless the rescuers came soon we must both go down.

Then there came a faint shout across the water to cheer my heart, and to which I responded in the loudest tones I could utter. I was heard, and the yawl, which had been going in quite another direction, turned and came towards me.

I kept crying out at intervals, and the lookout in the bow of the boat answered, the double cries serving to nerve me to hold out on the one hand, and to guide the craft to me on the other. At length they were beside me, and, nearly exhausted, I was drawn on board with my unconscious burden.

Then we tried to see where the brig was, but between the great waves and the darkness she was concealed from our view. Taking the direction we felt sure she was in, the four oarsmen pulled long and lustily against wind and waves and yet she did not appear. We had about concluded that we had lost her, when her lights suddenly appeared on our starboard, and we were able to hail her. In five minutes we were under her lee, and then were quickly drawn to her deck.

Dry clothing and a warm drink soon brought me to the place where I felt as good as new; but they had to work over Master Jones for half an hour before he came to consciousness, and he could not leave the forecastle until the following day. I have related this incident here not to glorify myself, but to say that it was the only act of mine that ever received a reprimand from Captain Tucker.

“Your motive was all right, Master Dunn,” he admitted, “and your plunge overboard to save one of your men was a grand exhibition of courage. But what if you had lost your life, or your boat had failed to return to the brig? She would have been left in a crippled condition, and might not have survived the storm. Do always all that you can to save a man who falls overboard without endangering your ship, but remember that the ship and her cargo are solemn trusts, and the lives of many are to be considered rather than the lives of the few.”

But if he did not appreciate the deed, there was one who did. When Master Jones came on deck, he walked directly to me, and touching his cap, said:

“I owe you my life, sir, an’ it’s yours. I not only thank ye for what ye did for me, but I’ll do my best to make it good some day, sir,” a promise he faithfully kept.

We reached Boston October fifteenth, and while the frigate was being overhauled, the captain and I got a chance to run down to Marblehead for a brief stay. Our coming created something of a sensation this time, as it had on the occasion of our previous visit, though for different reasons. The captain’s prowess had preceded him and his fellow townsmen were proud to have him with them again; for myself, they had heard I had died of the smallpox in the Halifax prison, and were filled with curiosity to know how I came to be alive and well and in my old place on the ship.

Before the month was over, however, we were off to sea again, and during the next six months made such havoc among the enemy’s shipping that a price was put on Captain Tucker’s head. If I recollect rightly, we took a score of merchantmen with large and valuable cargoes, and two frigates, the Glencairn of twenty guns and the Thorn of eighteen.

Early in June, 1779, we went on a cruise to the West Indies which lasted until the following September. During this trip our prizes were so numerous, the British admiral at New York selected the frigate Pole, carrying thirty-two guns, and over three hundred men, and sent her out for the special purpose of finding and destroying the Boston, or as her Captain expressed it: “Of giving that rebel Tucker a sound drubbing.”

We learned of this fact through the captain of the packet Sandwich, which was captured off the Bermudas. Chagrined at the loss of his own vessel, the moment he mounted to our deck, the officer exclaimed:

“Well, sir, you have taken my vessel, but let me tell you it will not be many days before you yourself are captured.”

“Is that so?” Captain Tucker questioned with a smile. “Pray tell me who is going to do it?”

“The frigate Pole,” he returned boastingly. “She has been fitted up and sent out on purpose to look you up and give you a sound drubbing. I heard her captain say he’d do it. She left New York four days ago, and must be down in this region by this time. Your cable is pretty nearly paid out.”

“Cannot you tell me more about her, so I may know her when I see her?” asked our commander tauntingly. “I might want to run away.”

“That will do you little good,” the Englishman replied, taking our skipper seriously. “She is bigger than you are, and carries eight more guns. She also has twice as large a crew, all picked men, and in addition a large body of marines. Besides that, she is the swiftest sailer on this side of the ocean, and can run you down in no time.”

“It does look as though I’d find her more than a match, doesn’t it?” our Captain remarked soberly. “She’s a good thing to avoid. I’m much obliged to you for your information. One thing more, please. You are quite sure she is somewhere between here and New York?”

The prisoner bit his lip. It had dawned upon him that possibly he had been talking too much. His information might enable Captain Tucker to escape capture. Finally, however, he answered:

“The frigate left New York, as I have said, four days ago; you must judge for yourself where she is now.”

“I think we’ll run up that way and take a look at her,” was the Captain’s comment.

Two days later we sighted a frigate, and Captain Tucker knew her at once by the description he had received. Sending for the commander of the packet, he pointed out the distant vessel, saying:

“There is your frigate. Now I want you to stand here, and see how I run away from her. But mind, not a word from you to thwart my plans.”

Then he ordered the English colors hoisted, and ran down towards the vessel. As soon as he had come within speaking distance, the English captain hailed him:

“What ship is that?”

“Captain Gordon’s,” replied our Captain, for he knew that Captain Gordon commanded an English ship, modelled and built much like the Boston, and had been unusually successful in taking American prizes.

“Where are you from?”

“From New York.”

“We are from there also.”

“When did you leave?”

“About six days ago. I’m after the frigate Boston to take that rebel Tucker. I’ve sworn I’ll earn the price set on his head, and am bound to carry him dead or alive into New York. Have you seen him?”

“Well,” rejoined Captain Tucker, “I have heard of him. They say he is a hard customer.”

During all this conversation, he had been quietly manœuvering to bring his ship into a raking position, so as to sweep the decks of the English frigate. He had every man at his post, his guns shotted, and his gunners with lighted matches in their hands all awaiting his orders.

But it happened that there was a man in the maintop of the Pole who had formerly known Captain Tucker, and he now cried out to the English captain:

“That is surely Tucker himself, and we shall have a hot time here directly!”

This was overheard by our commander, and having got his ship into just the position he wished, and seeing that he was discovered, he gave the order:

“Down with the English flag and hoist our own colors!”

Then he called out to the British captain in a voice of thunder:

“The time I proposed talking with you has ended, sir. This is the Boston frigate. I am Samuel Tucker, and no rebel. Either fire or strike your flag!”

Observing that his antagonist had all the advantage of him, and that a broadside would be fatal, the Britisher struck his colors. Not a gun was fired.

Later, when the commander of the Pole came on board of our ship, and went below to the stateroom assigned him, he shed tears to think that he had been captured by a vessel not so large as his own, and with only half as many men, and eight less guns. It is also reported that on his release and return to England he was tried and disgraced for this surrender.

Quite in contrast with this was the treatment given our Captain on his arrival in Philadelphia with his prize. Her capture added to his prowess, he received a vote of thanks from Congress, and, owing to her superior size and equipment, her entire value of one hundred and three thousand pounds sterling was turned over to us as prize money.

Probably, however, the most disgusted man on board the captured frigate was the captain of the packet Sandwich, who had given us our first news about her, and who had boasted she would speedily capture us. He had been a silent witness of her ignominious surrender. Then Captain Tucker had sent him on board of her, with instructions that each day while we were on our way to port, he was to be conducted all over her, from bow to stern, and from lower hold to upper deck, and then he was to be told:

“This, sir, is the vessel which was specially fitted up and sent out to look up the frigate Boston, and give her captain a sound drubbing.”