“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.
James Jarvis was one of the “young gentlemen” on the “Constellation” during the war with France. “Young gentlemen” was what the midshipmen were called in the old naval service, and Jarvis was the youngest of them all, being just thirteen at the time of the action with the “Vengeance.” He was the smallest officer aboard, and his most important duties were those of passing the word from the quarter-deck forward, and taking his station aloft in the maintop, where he was learning the mysteries of the maze of gear which went through the lubber’s-hole or belayed in the top. He also stood at quarters with his diminutive sword drawn,—a smaller edition of the lieutenants, who were allowed to wear one epaulette and who could make a louder noise through the speaking-trumpet than Jarvis could hope to for years. Down in the midshipmen’s mess, by virtue of his diminutive stature and tender years, he was not much interfered with by Wederstrandt, Henry, Vandyke, and the bigger men. But he fought one or two of the young gentlemen nearer his age, and, though frequently defeated, stood up as strongly as possible for what he deemed his rights. He was a manly little reefer, and up in the maintop, where he was stationed in time of action, the men swore by him. He was sensible enough not to give any orders without the professional opinion of one of the old jackies, who always ventured it with a touch of the cap, a respectful “Sir,” and perhaps a half-concealed smile, which was more of interest than amusement. Thirteen was rather a tender age at which to command men of fifty, but the midshipmen of those days were not ordinary boys. They went out from their comfortable homes aboard ships where men were even rougher and less well-disciplined than they are to-day, and they had either to sink or swim. It was Spartan treatment; but a year of it made men and sailors of them or else sent them posting home to their mothers and sisters.
Jarvis loved it, and did his duty like a man. He knew the lead of all the gear on his mast, and kept his few pieces of brass-work aloft shining like new. He kept the rigging in his top, even when there was no occasion for it, coiled down as though for inspection, although nobody but the topmen and yardmen ever had occasion to examine it. He was as active as a monkey, and, scorning the “lubber’s-hole,” went over the futtock-shrouds as smartly as any of the light-yardmen.
The greatest and probably the only regret of midshipman Jarvis’s short life was that he had not joined the great frigate before she met and defeated the “Insurgente” the year before. He wanted to be in a great action. Nothing seemed to make him feel more of a man than when the long 18-pounders were fired in broadside at target-practice. If he had been but a boy, instead of an officer with a gold-laced cap and a dirk and all the dignities pertaining to those habiliments, he would have clapped his hands and shouted for sheer joy. But the eyes of his men were upon him, and so he stood watching the flight of the shots, and biting hard on his lips he kept his composure.
Captain Truxton, ever mindful of his midshipmen, had disposed them in different parts of the ship with regard to their size and usefulness. The older ones had been given gun-divisions, while the youngsters were placed on the fo’c’s’le or in the tops, where they might be of assistance, but would more certainly be out of harm’s way. Such a thought was not suggested on the “Constellation.” If it had been, little Jarvis would probably have resigned immediately, or at the very least have burst into unmanly tears. As it was, he felt that his post aloft was as important as any on the ship, and he promised himself that if another Frenchman was sighted he would stay there whether the mast were up or down.
So, on the 1st of February, 1800, just about a year after the capture of the “Insurgente,” while they were bowling along under easy sail, about fifteen miles off Basse Terre, a large sail, which appeared to be a French frigate, was sighted to the southward. Jarvis went aloft two ratlines at a time, his heart bounding with joy at the prospect of the chance of a fight.
On assuring himself that she was a large ship, Captain Truxton immediately set all sail and took a course which soon brought her hull above the horizon and showed the Americans beyond a doubt that she was a ship-of-war of heavier metal than the “Constellation.” Nothing daunted, Truxton bore on his course until the gun-streaks of the other vessel could be plainly seen. Instead of showing the same desire to speak, the stranger held on, pointing a little off his course, as though anxious to avoid an encounter.
But the breeze, which had been light, now died away altogether, and the sea became calm. There the two great vessels drifted in sight of each other all night and part of the following day, awaiting the wind which would enable them to close. Jarvis was in a fever of impatience. A half a dozen times he got permission from the officer of the deck, and with a telescope almost as long as himself, clambered up to the main-royal to report. There was but one opinion among the midshipmen who went aloft,—she was a Frenchman. She could not be anything else.
About two o’clock in the afternoon of the next day, up to the northward they saw the ripple on the water of the wind they had been waiting for. The sail-loosers flew aloft, and every sail was spread to catch it. Soon the “Constellation” was pushing her way through the water, and the foam was even flying from the wave-tops here and there. The chase had caught the breeze at about the same time, and the Americans could see by the line of white under her bow that she was beginning to leg it at a handsome rate. But the “Constellation” was in excellent condition for a race, and by degrees drew up on the other ship, which as they reached her was seen to lie very low in the water, as though deep-laden. They were sure to discover who she was before nightfall, so Truxton cleared his ship for action. Jarvis went aloft to his top and saw the backstays lashed and the preventer-braces securely hooked and rove. Extra muskets were carried up into his top for the use of the jackies and marines when they should come into close quarters, for then the fire of sharpshooters would be almost as valuable as the shots of the great guns.
Their work had been over an hour and the sun had set in a clear sky before the “Constellation” drew up to gunshot distance. It was moonlight before she came within effective range. The battle-lanterns were lit, and the long row of lights on the Frenchman showed that he, too, was prepared for fight. The sky was clear, and the moon, which was nearly at the full, made the outlines of the vessels perfectly visible to the men at the guns. Jarvis, from his post aloft, could plainly see the lines of heads along the poop, and fancied that he could make out a midshipman almost as young as he, who was clambering about the maintop of the other vessel. He heard the beating of a drum and the sound of cheers as the Frenchmen moved to their quarters.
On the decks below there was not a sound. Truxton had given his men their orders. There was to be no cheering until there was something to cheer for. They were to await the order to fire until the enemy was close aboard, and then, and not until then, was the broadside to be delivered. The division-officers had gone about quietly repeating these commands to the gun-captains, and there was nothing further to say. Only to wait until the battle began. Jarvis repeated to his topmen, word for word, the instructions he had received, that in their aim particular attention was to be paid to the officers of the enemy.
Soon a gun from the after-battery of the Frenchman was fired. This was followed shortly by all the guns that would bear. Some of the shots crashed into the hull of the “Constellation,” and one of them killed several men. The division-officers glanced appealingly to Truxton, in the hope of the order to fire; but he merely held up his hand. Again the broadside came, and men seemed to be falling everywhere. The strain below and aloft was terrific. But the officers stood steadily, with a word of encouragement here and there, and the men did not flinch.
THE “CONSTELLATION” AND THE “VENGEANCE”
At last the “Constellation” came abreast the after-ports of the Frenchman, and Truxton, throwing her off a little, so that all his broadside would bear in a diagonal direction, loudly shouted the order to fire.
The telling broadside was delivered, and the battle was on in earnest. To those aloft the crash of the long eighteens into the hull of the enemy at every other downward roll of the “Constellation” showed how well the American gunners had learned to shoot, while the short bark of the cannonades and the shrieks in the brief pauses from the decks of the Frenchman told of the terrible effects of the fire among the enemy. The guns of the Frenchman were well served and rapidly fired, but they were aiming on the upward roll of the sea, and their shots went high. Several balls from the smaller pieces had lodged in the foremast and mainmast, and one had struck just below the futtock-band of the maintop, where Jarvis was, and sent the splinters flying up and all about him. Yard-arm to yard-arm they sailed for three long, bloody hours, until the firing of the Frenchman gradually slackened and then stopped almost altogether. The Americans had suffered less on the decks than aloft, and Jarvis’s topmen were employed most of the time in splicing and re-reeving gear. The discharge of the “Constellation’s” broadside-guns did not diminish for a moment, and so fast was the firing that many of the guns became overheated, and the men had to crawl out of the exposed ports to draw up buckets of water to cool them.
At about midnight Truxton managed to draw ahead of his adversary in the smoke, and, taking a raking position, sent in such a broadside that the Frenchman was silenced completely.
Jarvis and the men in the maintop had little time to use their muskets. Several long shots had struck the mast, and almost every shroud and backstay had been carried away. As the “Constellation” bore down upon her adversary to deal her the death-blow, the mast began swaying frightfully. There was a cry from the men at Jarvis’s side, and the marines and topmen began dropping through the lubber’s-hole, swinging themselves down the sides of the swaying mast by whatever gear they could lay their hands to.
Jarvis did not move. One of the older seamen took him by the shoulder and urged him to go below. The mast was going, he said, and it meant certain death to stay aloft.
Little Jarvis smiled at him. “This is my post of duty,” he replied, “and I am going to stay here until ordered below.”
At this moment a terrific crackling was heard, and the old man-o’-warsman went over the edge of the top. All the strain was on one or two of the shrouds, and, just as he reached the deck, with a tremendous crash the great mast went over the side.
Jarvis had kept his promise to stay by his mast whether it was up or down.
The Frenchman, not so badly injured aloft, took advantage of the condition of the “Constellation,” and, slowly making sail before the wreck was cleared away, faded into the night. It was afterwards discovered that she was the “Vengeance,” of fifty-two guns. She succeeded in reaching Curaçoa in a sinking condition.
When the news of the fight reached home, Congress gave Truxton a medal and a sword, and prize money to the officers and crew.
For little Jarvis, the midshipman, who preferred to die at his post, Congress passed a special resolution, which read:
“Resolved, That the conduct of James Jarvis, a midshipman in said frigate, who gloriously preferred certain death to an abandonment of his post, is deserving of the highest praise, and that the loss of so promising an officer is a subject of national regret.”
History does not show an instance of nobler self-sacrifice, and no such honor as this special act of Congress was received by a boy before or since.
Although the Civil War furnished many instances of conspicuous gallantry, so many that most of them remain to-day comparatively unknown, none was more notable than the torpedo exploit of Lieutenant William Barker Cushing. There have been several similar expeditions in our naval history. Before Tripoli, Richard Somers made the ill-fated attempt with the “Intrepid,” and in the war with Spain, Richmond Hobson sunk the “Merrimac.” There is no question that the personal and sentimental aspects of these three hazardous enterprises are similar. All three men were young, and each one knew that he took his life in his hands. Somers, rather than be captured with his powder, destroyed both his ship and himself. Hobson sunk the “Merrimac,” but did not succeed in getting her athwart the channel. Cushing, in a torpedo-launch, went under the guns of the enemy, and escaped both death and imprisonment. On the enemy the moral effect of all three exploits must have been the same. Professionally, Cushing’s exploit has just this distinction: he was successful. Like Decatur in the recapture of the “Philadelphia,” he carried out in every detail the plans he had made. And upon his success the way was opened for the Union fleet, and the hopes of the Confederates fled, for only two seaports in the South—Charleston and Wilmington—remained open to them.
After the great success of the “Merrimac” in Hampton Roads, the Confederates determined to construct a vessel of similar design for use in the Southern rivers and sounds. Under great difficulties they built the “Albemarle” on the Roanoke River, and carried her into action almost before the last rivet was driven. She was a formidable craft in those days, and the shots from the vessels of the Northern fleet went harmlessly against her iron sides to break and fly into a thousand pieces. On the 5th of May the “Albemarle” had another fight with a larger fleet of Union vessels, which had gathered to hem in and disable her. During the action the “Sassacus” saw an opportunity to ram her, and, going ahead at full speed, struck the ram a terrific blow amidships. The bow of the “Sassacus” was literally torn to pieces by the impact, and the “Albemarle,” though heeling over and in danger of sinking for a time, finally righted and pulled out of the action uninjured, but by no means disabled. All of the vessels of the squadron kept up a heavy fire upon her, but she went on to her anchorage up the river, where a few repairs made her as good as ever.
It looked to the Unionists as though the story of the “Merrimac” with the “Congress” and the “Cumberland” was about to be repeated; that the “Albemarle” in course of time would come down at her leisure and destroy all Northern vessels in those waters. To make matters worse, the Unionists learned that another vessel of a similar type was nearly completed, and that the two vessels would attack at the same time,—a combination which, with their consorts, seemed irresistible. Something had to be done if the command of the sounds of the Carolinas was to remain with the navy of the North.
But during the summer of 1864 two steam launches rigged up as torpedo-boats, the invention of Engineer J. L. Long, were fitted out at New York and brought down through the canals to Albemarle Sound. The bows of the boats were cut under and decked over, and the engines were so built that when covered and moving at a low rate of speed they made little or no noise. A spar ten or fifteen feet long, which carried a torpedo and a firing attachment, projected forward over the bow, and a small howitzer was also mounted forward where it would be useful to repel attack.
The government had decided to make a night attempt on the “Albemarle,” and the honor of the command of the expedition was bestowed on Lieutenant Cushing, who had half a dozen times before received the thanks of the secretary of the navy for gallantry in action off Cape Fear River.
The expedition was favored by the inactivity of the Confederates. The “Albemarle” lay alongside the dock at Plymouth awaiting the completion of her sister-ship, but this needless delay gave Cushing the opportunity he wanted.
The Confederates were fully aware of the plans of the Unionist’s navy, and a thousand soldiers remained to guard the “Albemarle” from land attack as well as to act as sentries for a distance along the river bank. To provide against torpedoes, a line of great cypress logs was boomed off her sides at a distance of twenty to thirty feet, so that it seemed impossible to come within striking distance. Besides this, the smaller guns of the ram were trained up and down the river,—which here was but one hundred and fifty yards wide,—to sweep the entire area over which the attacking party had to pass.
But Cushing, like Decatur, rejoiced at obstacles. He was only twenty-one, but he carried a man’s head on his broad shoulders, and the planning of such an expedition down to the smallest detail was a task which he entered into with judgment and enthusiasm, ingredients as rare as they are necessary in such a desperate enterprise.
After a week spent in preparation and experiment, the gunboat “Otsego” brought the launch to the mouth of the river, where Cushing cast off and pointed his bow toward Plymouth, towing a cutter full of armed men, who were to capture, if possible, a Confederate guard,—which had been set in a schooner near the sunken “Southfield,”—to prevent their giving the alarm. But the expedition started badly, for the launch ran aground on a bar. Before Cushing could float her again it was too late to make the attempt. Cushing and his boat’s crews then returned to the “Otsego.”
The next night was black and squally, with occasional showers of rain. They could only make out the loom of the shore by straining their eyes into the darkness. Cushing was as cool as though taking shore-liberty. As he shook hands with the “Otsego’s” officers he paused at the gangway to say, with a laugh,—
“Well, here goes for another stripe or a coffin.”
They crept slowly up the river, keeping close to the bank, under the shadow of the reeds and trees. The little engine, covered with tarpaulins, made so little sound that the men in the cutter towing astern could hardly hear it. There was not a sound except the plashing of the gusts of rain and the ripple of the water as the little craft moved steadily on. Cushing knew he must be passing some of the pickets now, so not a word even in whispers was spoken. Every man had his duty and knew when to do it. Acting Ensign William Howarth was aft at Cushing’s side. Acting Master’s Mate John Woodman, who knew the river, was next to him. The other officers were Acting Master’s Mate Thomas S. Gay, Acting Assistant-Paymaster Francis H. Swan, and Acting Third-Assistant-Engineers Charles L. Steever and William Stotesbury.
By half-past two A.M., about a mile below Plymouth, where the “Albemarle” lay, they came upon the submerged “Southfield,” and could just make out the lines of the guard-schooner. The machinery of the launch was slowed, almost stopped, for Cushing had decided to get by her if he could without a fight. It was a moment of utmost anxiety, and every man was prepared for the attack. But there was no sign of discovery from the schooners, and in ten minutes the little expedition had passed up the river in safety.
But only the first danger of discovery was over. Between the “Southfield” and Plymouth the bank was guarded by a double line of sentries, and the men in the boats, now moving more quickly, could see the red glare of the smouldering fires reaching all the way to town. As they came to the point beyond which the ram was lying, they found, to their delight, that the fires which should have been brightly burning were smouldering in the rain. There was no sign of a man to be made out anywhere, and Cushing pushed on directly for the “Albemarle,” which he could now see plainly as she lay at the wharf, grim and menacing, but without a sign of life.
Suddenly from the shore there came the sharp bark of a dog. To the ears of Cushing and his men in the deep silence and anxiety of the moment it sounded like the report of a Dahlgren. There was a cry from a sentry and a challenge, followed by a musket-shot, and the bullet flew over the boats and struck the water fifty feet away with a vicious ping that sounded not less loud than the report itself. There was another challenge, and in a moment the cries came from everywhere. Other dogs began barking, and it seemed as though the whole town was aroused. The sentries on both sides of the stream threw inflammable material on the smouldering fires, and in a moment the river was as bright as day.
Realizing that further concealment was useless, Cushing himself cast off the towline of the cutter, and telling the men in her to row for their lives, gave the engineer the order, “Four bells, ahead full speed,” setting the nose of the launch directly for the ram. The sparks flew up from her stack, and the dark water churned up in masses of foam under her stern, as like a sentient thing she leaped forward on her deadly mission. It was then that Cushing discovered for the first time the line of torpedo booms which guarded the ram. In facing the musketry-fire and the great guns of their enormous adversary the task of getting close enough to reach her seemed impossible.
Cushing knew that if he was to get over the log booms he must strike them fair; then perhaps he could slide over within striking distance. He shifted his helm, and making a wide sweep out into the stream, gathered all the headway he could and came down into the very jaws of the great monster. A tremendous volley from the shot-guns and muskets of the sentries greeted them, and Paymaster Swan was wounded. Cushing received a charge of buckshot in the back of his coat and had the sole of his shoe torn off, but these were the only shots which took effect.
Cushing here shouted, in a loud voice, “Leave the ram; we’re going to blow you up!” hoping to create a panic. But the Confederates continued firing, and succeeded in getting in two howitzer-shots, one of which felled a man by Cushing’s side. At this moment, Gay, up forward in the launch, took careful aim with the howitzer, and sent a charge in the midst of the Confederate crew. Then with a slight jar the sled-like bow rose on the boom. She balanced a second, and slid over within the enclosure, half full of water, but within reaching distance.
One of the great guns of the “Albemarle,” a hundred-pounder, protruded from a broadside port directly in front of them, and they could see the gun-crew frantically training the gun and trying to depress the muzzle enough to bear on them. It was a matter of seconds now. Who would fire first? Cushing had lowered the torpedo-spar, and as soon as he had it well under the overhang he detached it, then waited until he heard the torpedo strike the hull, when he pulled the trigger-line. He was not a fraction of a second too soon, for the two concussions were almost simultaneous. There was a muffled roar from below the great vessel, and a column of water shot out from under her as she lifted on the wave. The shock of the hundred-pounder was terrific, and it seemed as if the frail launch had been blown to pieces. But Cushing had been too quick for them. The charge of canister passed a few feet over their heads and scattered in the river beyond.
The work of the gallant crew was done. Cushing had made a hole in the “Albemarle” large enough to have driven a wagon through. The great wave of the torpedo rose and went completely over the launch, swamping her alongside and throwing her men into the water. All of them got to the booms safely. Here Cushing paused a moment to throw off his outer clothing, while the Confederates on the banks were shouting to the men to surrender. Several of them, being unable to swim, did so; but Cushing, calling to the others to follow him, plunged boldly into the water and struck off down the stream. He was a powerful swimmer, but the night was cold, and he knew that he could not keep up very long. But he swam for half an hour, and he came upon Woodman in the middle of the stream, almost exhausted. Though almost entirely fagged out himself, he tried to help the mate towards the shore. Finding that he was being pulled down and unable to save the other, Cushing struggled on, and reached the shoal water more dead than alive. Here he lay among the reeds until dawn, when he learned from a negro how complete had been his success. At last, after almost twenty-four hours’ exposure, he succeeded in finding one of the enemy’s deserted picket-skiffs, and managed under cover of the second night to pull off to the Federal “Valley City,” which he reached at eleven o’clock at night, and was hauled aboard completely exhausted from his labor and exposure. Only one other of his crew reached a place of safety. Woodman and Samuel Higgins, the fireman, were drowned. The others went ashore and surrendered or were captured.
This service, because of the great benefit to the Union cause and the daring manner in which it had been performed, made Cushing the hero of the year. Congress passed a vote of thanks and promoted him to the rank of lieutenant-commander, which he held until 1872, when he became a commander.
He did not long enjoy his honors, for two years later he died of brain fever, in Washington, at the age of thirty-two. Had he lived he would have been but fifty-six years of age at the outbreak of the war with Spain, and would have been one of the ranking officers in active service of the new navy.
Among the young officers of Commodore Preble’s squadron before Tripoli there was a tall, dark, melancholy-looking fellow of about twenty-five. His name was Richard Somers and his command was the “Nautilus,” a little schooner of twelve guns and a hundred men. He had been with Decatur and Stewart, a junior officer on Commodore Barry’s “United States” in the war with Spain, and the friendship formed in those early days had been cemented by a score of thrilling adventures which had drawn them more closely together than brothers. Charles Stewart, before Decatur’s promotion to post-captain, had been the second in command to Preble, and his vessel, the “Siren,” had taken a prominent part in all the many actions with the Tripolitan forts and gunboats. He was a year or so older than his companions and had drifted a little away from them. But Decatur and Somers were inseparable. Some bond outside of mere professional sympathy and environment existed between them, and there seemed to be no thought of the one that the other did not share. The difference in their temperaments was marked. Decatur was bold, domineering, and impetuous. Somers was quiet, mild, and ever avoided the quarrel which Decatur too often sought. But under the quiet exterior men had found a will like iron and the willingness to dare and do anything that came within the province of his profession. He was thoughtful, but not so quiet that he could not enter into the gayety of the mess; he was mild, but not so mild that he would overlook shortcomings among his men or brook any slight upon his office or his reputation.
In the old days on the “United States” there happened an affair which immediately established his reputation as an officer and a man. At first he was not understood. His brother midshipmen, mistaking the reserve of his manner for weakness, did not hesitate before they had been aboard with him a month to take advantage of him in the steerage and on deck in every possible way. Not only did they slight him, but, after the manner of the cadet midshipman of recent years, they made him the butt of most of their practical jokes below-decks. Somers stood it for a while in silence. He dearly loved peace, and, beyond a good-humored protest, let everything pass for what it was worth. But as the weeks went by and the bantering continued, instead of laughing it off as before, Somers became more and more quiet and self-contained.
Decatur, ever humorous and mischief-making, had himself been one of the worst to chaff his comrade; but he knew what Somers’ silence meant, and he desisted. He had been his school-mate in Philadelphia, and he had seen that ominous quiet before. Decatur would have fought for him to the last drop of his blood, but he felt that his comrade was well able to look out for himself.
Somers went about his duties quietly, never giving a sign that there was anything upon his mind until the day before coming into port, then he went to Decatur, and said,—
“Stephen, to-morrow I want you to go ashore with me, for I am going to meet three men.”
The next afternoon a cutter containing Somers, Decatur, and three midshipmen, with their seconds, went ashore and found a secluded spot upon the beach where they would be free from interference. He had challenged all three to fight at the same time and would take them in succession.
In the first two duels Somers received two shots in the body, the latter one of which caused him to sink upon the sand as though dangerously hurt; but he rallied quickly, and, seeing that the third midshipman was standing waiting to see if the battle could be continued, he tried to struggle to his feet. He found he could not get up, and Decatur offered to take his place and receive the fire of the third midshipman. But Somers, though suffering greatly, was not to be deterred, and bade Decatur prop him up in a sitting posture, in which position he exchanged shots with the third man. Fortunately, none of the injuries resulted fatally, and in a few weeks Somers was on deck again. He went about his duties as quietly as before, but never after that did they call him milksop.
It was Somers who led one division of the gunboats to attack the Tripolitan fleet while Decatur was leading the other. Finding that he could not reach them by the eastern entrance, he sailed into the northern entrance of the harbor and single-handed boldly sent his little vessel into the midst of five of the enemy. His gunboat was smaller than any one of those of his adversaries; but so well was his long gun served and so true was the fire of his musketry that he held them at bay for half an hour, and not one of them succeeded in getting alongside of him to board. They were all bearing straight down upon the rocks, though, and Somers could not spare enough men from the guns to man his sweeps. But Preble, on the “Constitution,” saw his danger, and, coming up in time, sent a broadside of grape among the pirates, and they got out their sweeps and retreated, when, in spite of the doggedness of the defence, one united attack would have made the victory theirs. But as they drew off, instead of returning, as Preble wished, to the “Constitution,” Somers pursued them until within less than a cable’s length of a twelve-gun battery, which had not fired before for fear of damaging the fleeing Tripolitans. When she opened fire at this close range the destruction of Somers’s valiant little vessel seemed inevitable. But by a lucky chance a bombard exploded in the battery, blew up the platform, and drove the Tripolitans to cover.
Before they could recover and train their guns, Somers managed to bring his craft out in safety. In a later action, as Somers stood leaning against a flag-staff on his little vessel, a shot came directly for him. The officer saw it in time, and jumped aside to see the spar carried away at just the spot where his head had been. He was spared for more deadly work.
While these many attacks were being made upon the gunboats and batteries, the “Intrepid,” in which Decatur had recaptured and destroyed the “Philadelphia,” was being rapidly prepared as a fire-ship. Their plan was to load her with a hundred barrels of powder in bulk, with bags of grape and solid shot, and under cover of the night explode her in the midst of the Tripolitan war-vessels. Somers, who had been frequently in the harbor of Tripoli and knew its reefs and rocks so that he could readily thread his way through the narrow channels, asked for the opportunity to command this expedition. But Decatur’s success in boarding the “Philadelphia” had raised the chivalry of every officer and man in the fleet to a point rarely equalled in our own history, and Somers, while he did not begrudge Decatur his two epaulettes, was filled with the passion to do a deed as great, if not greater. They had been rivals since youth, and he felt that now was the opportunity to attempt a great deed for his country, though he and every man in the fleet knew that the chances of coming out alive were but one in a hundred. Somers went to Commodore Preble and urged his knowledge of the harbor as his chief claim to the service. It was an honor that a half-dozen other men sought, and not until the old commodore had weighed the chances fully did he at last agree to let Somers go. But, before consenting, Preble repeatedly warned the young officer of the desperate character of the work, and told him that on account of the Napoleonic wars the Tripolitans were short of ammunition, and that so much powder must not fall into the hands of the enemy. But Somers needed no warning. A day or two afterwards, when the preparations were nearly completed, Preble and some other officers were trying a fuse in the cabin of the “Constitution.” One of the officers, watch in hand, ventured the opinion that it burned too long and might enable the enemy to put it out before it exploded the magazine. Hearing this, Somers said, quietly,—
“I ask for no fuse at all.”
He was more gentle than ever in those last few days, and as he and Decatur leaned over the hammock-nettings of “Old Ironsides,” looking towards the line of white where the sea was breaking over the outer roofs, the melancholy look seemed to deepen and the far-away expression in his eyes was of another world. Decatur knew that rather than give up his ship and his powder, Somers would blow the ship and himself to eternity.
When volunteers were called for, the desperateness of the enterprise was fully explained; but the crew of the “Nautilus,” Somers’s own vessel stepped forward to a man. He selected four,—James Simms, Thomas Tompline, James Harris, and William Keith. From the “Constitution” he took William Harrison, Robert Clark, Hugh McCormick, Jacob Williams, Peter Penner, and Isaac Downes. Midshipman Henry Wadsworth (an uncle of the poet Longfellow) was chosen as second in command. Midshipman Joseph Israel, having vainly pleaded with Somers to be allowed to go, at the last moment smuggled himself aboard the “Intrepid,” and when discovered Somers had not the heart to send him back.
Decatur and Stewart went aboard the “Nautilus” on the evening that the attempt had been planned. The three had been so closely united all their lives that Stewart and Decatur felt the seriousness of the moment. Even professionally the attempt seemed almost foolhardy, for several Tripolitan vessels had come to anchor just within the entrance, and to pass them even at night seemed an impossibility. Somers felt a premonition of his impending catastrophe, for just as they were about to return to their own vessels he took a ring from his finger and, breaking it into three pieces, gave each of them a part, retaining the third for himself.
As soon as the night fell the “Intrepid” cast off her lines and went slowly up towards the harbor. The “Argus,” the “Vixen,” and the “Nautilus” followed her, while shortly afterwards Stewart on the “Siren” became so anxious that he followed, too. A haze that had come up when the sun went down hung heavily over the water, and soon the lines of the fire-ship became a mere gray blur against the dark coast-line beyond. The excitement upon the guard-ships now became intense, and both officers and men climbed the rigging and leaned out in the chains in the hope of being able to follow the movements of the ketch. Midshipman Ridgley, on the “Nautilus,” by the aid of a powerful night-glass aloft, managed to follow her until she got well within the harbor, and then she vanished. The suspense soon became almost unbearable, for not a shot had been fired and not a sound came from the direction in which she had gone. At about nine o’clock a half-dozen cannon-shots could be plainly heard, and even the knowledge that she had been discovered and was being fired on was a relief from the awful silence.
At about ten o’clock Stewart was standing at the gangway of the “Siren,” with Lieutenant Carrol, when the latter, craning his neck out into the night, suddenly exclaimed,—
“Look! See the light!”
Stewart saw away up the harbor a speck of light, as if from a lantern, which moved rapidly, as though it were being carried by some one running along a deck. Then it paused and disappeared from view. In a second a tremendous flame shot up hundreds of feet into the air, and the glare of it was so intense that it seemed close aboard. The flash and shock were so stupendous that the guard-ships, though far out to sea, trembled and shivered like the men who watched and were blinded. The sound of the explosion which followed seemed to shake sea and sky. It was like a hundred thunder-claps, and they could hear the echoes of it go rolling down across the water until it was swallowed up in the silence of the night.
That was all. The officers and the men looked at one another in mute horror. Could anything have lived in the area of that dreadful explosion? The tension upon the men of the little fleet was almost at the breaking point. Every eye was strained towards the harbor and every ear caught eagerly at the faintest sound. Officers and men frequently asked one another the question, “Have you heard anything yet?” with always the same reply.
The vessels beat to and fro between the harbor-entrances, firing rockets and guns for the guidance of possible fugitives. And the doleful sound of that gun made the silences the more depressing. All night long did the fleet keep vigil, but not a shot, a voice, or even a splash came from the harbor.
With the first streaks of dawn the Americans were aloft with their glasses. On the rocks at the northern entrance, through which the “Intrepid” had passed, they saw a mast and fragments of vessels. When the mist cleared they saw that one of the enemy’s largest gunboats had disappeared and two others were so badly shattered that they lay upon the shore for repairs.
The details of the occurrence were never actually known, but it is thought that Somers, being laid aboard by three gunboats before actually in the midst of the shipping, and feeling himself overpowered, fired his magazine and destroyed himself and his own men in his avowed purpose not to be taken by the enemy.
Thus died Richard Somers, Henry Wadsworth, the midshipman, Joseph Israel, and ten American seamen, whose names have been inscribed on the navy’s roll of fame. Nothing can dim the honor of a man who dies willingly for his country.
Since ballad-mongering began, the sea and the men who go down to it in ships have been a fruitful theme; and the conventional song-singing, horn-piping tar of the chanteys is a creature of fancy, pure and simple.
Jack is as honest as any man. Aboard ship he goes about his duties willingly, a creature of habit and environment, with a goodly respect for his “old man” and the articles of war. Ashore he is an innocent,—a brand for the burning, with a half-month’s pay and a devouring thirst.
Sailor-men all over the world are the same, and will be throughout all time, except in so far as their life is improved by new conditions. Though Jack aboard ship is the greatest grumbler in the world, ashore he loves all the world, and likes to be taken for the sailor of the songs. In a week he will spend the earnings of many months, and go back aboard ship, sadder, perhaps, but never a wiser man.
He seldom makes resolutions, however, and so, when anchor takes ground again, his money leaves him with the same merry clink as before. Though a Bohemian and a nomad, he does not silently steal away, like the Arab. His goings, like his comings, are accompanied with much carousing and song-singing; and the sweetheart he leaves gets to know that wiving is not for him. With anchor atrip and helm alee, Jack mourns not, no matter whither bound.
The improved conditions on the modern men-of-war have changed things for him somewhat, and, though still impregnated with old ideas, Jack is more temperate, more fore-sighted, and more self-reliant than he once was. His lapses of discipline and his falls from grace are less frequent than of yore, for he has to keep an eye to windward if he expects to win any of the benefits that are generously held out to the hard-working, sober, and deserving.
But the bitterness of the old days is barely disguised in the jollity of the chanteys. However we take it, the sea-life is a hardship the like of which no land-lubber knows. Stories of the trials of the merchant service come to him now and then and open his eyes to the real conditions of the service.
Men are greater brutes at sea than ashore. The one-man power, absolute, supreme in the old days, when all license was free and monarchies trod heavily on weak necks, led men to deeds of violence and death, whenever violence and death seemed the easiest methods of enforcing discipline. Men were knocked down hatchways, struck with belaying-pins, made to toe the seam on small provocation or on no provocation at all. The old-fashioned sea-yarns of Captain Marryat ring true as far as they go, but they do not go far enough.
In England the great frigates were generally both under-manned and badly victualled, and the cruises were long and sickening. The practice of medicine had not reached the dignity of the precise science it is to-day, and the surgeon’s appliances were rude and roughly manipulated. Anæsthetics were unknown, and after the battles, the slaughter in which was sometimes terrific, many a poor chap was sent to his last account by unwise amputation or bad treatment after the operation.
The water frequently became putrid, and this, with the lack of fresh vegetables and the over use of pork, brought on the disease called scurvy, which oftentimes wiped out entire crews in its deadly ravages. Every year thousands of men were carried off by it. A far greater number died from the effects of scurvy than from the enemy’s fire. Lieutenant Kelly says that during the Seven Years’ War but one thousand five hundred and twelve seamen and marines were killed, but one hundred and thirty-three thousand died of disease or were reported missing. Not until the beginning of this century was this dreadful evil ameliorated.
The evils of impressment and the work of the crimp and his gang—so infamous in England—had no great vogue here, for the reason that, during our wars of 1776 and 1812, the good seamen—coasters and fishermen, who had suffered most from the Lion—were only too anxious to find a berth on an American man-of-war, where they could do yeoman’s service against their cruel oppressor.
“Keel-hauling” and the “cat” were relics of the barbarism of the old English navy. Keel-hauling was an extreme punishment, for the unfortunate rarely, if ever, survived the ordeal. In brief, it consisted in sending the poor sailor-man on a voyage of discovery along the keel of the vessel. Trussed like a fowl, he was lowered over the bows of the ship and hauled along underneath her until he made his appearance at the stern, half or wholly drowned, and terribly cut all over the body by the sea-growth on the ship’s bottom. He bled in every part from the cuts of the barnacles; but “this was considered rather advantageous than otherwise, as the loss of blood restored the patient, if he were not quite drowned, and the consequence was that one out of three, it is said, have been known to recover from their enforced submarine excursion.”
Think of it! Recovery was not anticipated, but if the victim got well, the officer in command made no objection! Beside the brutality of these old English navy bullies a barbarous Hottentot chief would be an angel of mercy.
Flogging and the use of the cat were abolished in the American navy in 1805. This law meant the use of the cat-o’-nine tails as a regular punishment, but did not prohibit blows to enforce immediate obedience. Before that time it was a common practice for the punishment of minor offences as well as the more serious ones.
Flogging in the old days was an affair of much ceremony on board men-of-war. The entire ship’s company was piped on deck for the punishment, and the culprit, stripped to the waist, was brought to the mast. The boatswain’s mate, cat in hand, stood by the side of a suspended grating in the gangway, and the captain, officer of the deck, and the surgeon took their posts opposite him. The offence and the sentence were then read, and the stripes were administered on the bare back of the offender, a petty officer standing by to count the blows of the lash, while the doctor, with his hand on the victim’s pulse, was ready to give the danger signal when absolutely necessary.
The men bore it in different ways. The old hands gritted their teeth philosophically, but the younger men frequently shrieked in their agony as the pitiless lash wound itself around the tender flesh, raising at first livid red welts, and afterwards lacerating the flesh and tearing the back into bloody seams.
The effect upon the lookers-on was varied. The younger officers, newly come from well-ordered English homes, frequently fainted at the sight. But the horror of the spectacle soon died away, and before many weeks had passed, with hardened looks, they stood on the quarter-deck and watched the performance amusedly. Soon the spectacle got to be a part of their life, and the jokes were many and the laughter loud at the victim’s expense. The greater the suffering the more pleasurable the excitement.
Many yarns are spun of Jack’s tricks to avoid the lash or to reduce to a minimum the pain of the blows. Sometimes the men had their flogging served to them regularly, but in small doses. To these the punishment lost its rigor. For the boatswain’s mate not infrequently disguised the force of his blows, which came lightly enough, though the victim bawled vigorously to keep up the deception, and in the “three- and four-dozen” cases he sometimes tempered his blows to the physical condition of the sufferers, who otherwise would have swooned with the pain.
One Jacky, who thought himself wiser than his fellows, in order to escape his next dozen, had a picture of a crucifix tattooed over the whole surface of his back, and under it a legend, which intimated that blows upon the image would be a sacrilege. When next he was brought before the mast he showed it to the boatswain and his captain. The captain, a crusty barnacle of the old harsh school, smiled grimly.
“Don’t desecrate the picture, bos’n,” he said; “we will respect this man’s religious scruples. You may put on his shirt,” he said, chuckling to himself, “but remove his trousers, bos’n, and give him a dozen extra. And lay them on religiously, bos’n.”
All this was in the older days, and it was never so bad in the American as in the English navy. The middle period of the American navy, from before the Civil War to the age of iron and steel cruisers, presents an entirely different aspect in some ways.
Illegal punishments were still inflicted, for there were always then, as now, a certain percentage of ruffians forward who were amenable to no discipline, and could be managed only by meeting them with their own weapons. The “spread-eagle” and the ride on the “gray mare” were still resorted to to compel obedience.
They “spread-eagled” a man by tricing him up inside the rigging, taut lines holding his arms and legs outstretched to the farthest shrouds, a bight of rope passed around his body preventing too great a strain. He was gagged, and so he could not answer back.
The “gray mare” on which the obstreperous were forced to gallop was the spanker-boom—the long spar that extends far over the water at the ship’s stern. By casting loose the sheets, the boom rolled briskly from side to side, and the lonely horseman was forced in this perilous position to hold himself by digging his nails into the soft wood or swinging to any of the gear that flew into his reach. At best it was not a safe saddle, and a rough sea made it worse than a bucking broncho.