As the student of American naval history turns the leaves of Cooper’s invaluable work, nothing found there is likely to impress him more deeply than the list of names of the officers retained on the naval register after the Peace Establishment Act of 1801. For he will find there at a glance the names of the majority of the heroes of the early days—the names of such men as Dale and Bainbridge and Stewart and Hull and Somers and Decatur and Perry and Macdonough, to bring to mind the notable deeds done when the nation was young. These alone make the tabular pages notable. But when they are examined more closely, still another impressive feature is found, for in the column of the table that tells the ultimate fate of the majority of the men there named, he will find the words “killed in a duel” so frequently as to produce a distinct mental shock. There were thirty-six lieutenants, of whom two, Stephen Decatur and Henry Vandyke, were “killed in a duel.” There were one hundred and fifty-nine midshipmen, of whom three suffered a similar fate.

It is a pity that no adequate record was kept of the duels of American naval officers in other days, for, shocking as the assertion may seem to the humanitarian, in these days, it is nevertheless a fact that some of the duellists of those days proved their heroic and manly qualities in personal combats—in combats that did not always result in death, as well as in some that did. A few of these duels are mentioned in some detail in a variety of historical works. There are others that live by tradition only, while of others still there is nothing now known, so far as the writer hereof could learn, although inquiry was made of many naval officers and all the books relating to such subjects were searched. But because some of the duels of which an account is to be had were creditable under the circumstances to at least one of the men taking part in each, and because others illustrate the spirit of the age, even an inadequate account of them seems to be better than none at all.

In proof of the assertion that duels were sometimes creditable, the story of the meeting of Midshipman Joseph Bainbridge with the secretary of Sir Alexander Ball, Governor of the Island of Malta, in 1803, shall be told first of all. There are several versions of the story, but all agree as to the most important facts, and of these there is no doubt.

As the reader will remember, the Americans had a fleet in the Mediterranean, at that time, negotiating treaties with the Barbary pirates. It was in the days when the lucky schooner Enterprise thrashed the pirate polacre Tripoli, losing not a man herself, but killing twenty of the enemy and wounding thirty more; when Stephen Decatur avenged the treacherous killing of his brother James in a hand-to-hand fight with the pirate murderer, and afterward burned the Philadelphia; when Somers went to his death in the fire-ship Intrepid.

At the various civilized ports where the American ships called, the American officers fell in with the officers of the European navies. The Yankees had already shown somewhat of their skill as sea-warriors, but in the mind of the European officer they were at best mere plebeians. They were of the people. In short, in the mind of the European officer, they were not gentlemen. The English officers were the chief aggressors in treating the Americans with contumely. Considering the state of civilization at that day, what was an American officer to do?

On a certain night in the month of February, 1803, while the Chesapeake, the New York, the John Adams, and the Enterprise were lying at Malta, a number of the officers went ashore to spend the evening. Eventually they gathered at the theatre. While a number of them stood in the lobby there, the secretary of the Governor came in with some friends. He was of mature years and a noted duellist of that day—had killed a number of men, in fact—and his mission in the theatre was to get a fight with one of the Yankee officers. He had openly boasted, it is said, that he would “have a Yankee for breakfast” the next day.

Looking over the group, he selected one of the youngest, Midshipman Joseph Bainbridge, for his victim, and on walking past the group jostled him. As it happened, Bainbridge was at that moment speaking to a shipmate and was taken wholly by surprise. Having no idea that anyone would wilfully seek a deadly quarrel, his first impression was that the jostling was accidental. Nevertheless, when the secretary walked away with a jaunty air, Bainbridge suspected that an insult had been intended, and he was just speaking to his shipmates about it when Lieutenant Stephen Decatur happened along. Decatur had had experience in such matters, and Bainbridge at once stated the case to him.

“We’ll very soon learn whether it was an accident or an insult,” said Decatur, and he was turning away to go in search of the offender when the fellow came past the group from behind Decatur. As he arrived beside young Bainbridge, the duellist said, in a voice that all could hear:

“Those Yankees will never stand the smell of gunpowder.” Then he jostled the youngster again and started on, but before he could take a second step he received a blow from the Yankee’s fist that knocked him sprawling.

Of course the duellist challenged as soon as he could get on his feet. Decatur smiled and bowed. Turning to Bainbridge, who was, it should be remembered, a boy of perhaps sixteen, Decatur said:

“Go aboard ship, sir, and give yourself no more concern about this matter. I will attend to everything.”

As soon as Bainbridge left the theatre Decatur went aside with the Englishmen to arrange for the inevitable duel. As the challenged party, the Americans had the right to make the terms. Said Decatur when the others were ready to hear him:

“We will go to the beach at sunrise to-morrow morning. There we will place our men back to back, and at the word ‘March’ they shall each march two steps and then whirl and fire. There shall be only the one word.”

“My God, man,” said the English second, “that is clear murder.”

“Pardon me,” said Decatur, “your man is an experienced duellist. He has picked out for his victim one of our young officers who has had no experience whatever. By the terms that I propose they will be placed as nearly on an equal footing as is possible. However, sir, if you do not wish to fight in that way, I will take the place of the midshipman and meet your man on the usual terms at ten paces.”

And the Englishman chose to fight the boy on the terms named rather than face the experienced Decatur.

So Decatur went on board ship, and taking Midshipman Bainbridge on deck, placed him with a cocked but empty pistol in hand, back to back with a shipmate, and said “March.” Bainbridge marched two steps, whirled on his heel in military fashion, and snapped the empty pistol at his shipmate. Again he was placed in position, and again he marched and turned and snapped the pistol. And from that time on he stood erect and marched and turned, again and again, the whole night through—he was drilled in his duty till he did it as mechanically as, and with the accuracy of, a clock that strikes the hour.

And as the sun was tingeing the morning sky he was placed back to back with the professional duellist. Both marched at the word and both turned, but because Bainbridge had been trained by Stephen Decatur he turned more swiftly than the enemy, and shot him dead.

Let the reader decide for himself whether that was or was not a fight for the honor of the flag. Meantime, it is worth telling that the Governor of Malta, Sir Alexander Ball, was so wrought up over the death of his secretary, and made such a stir about it, that Decatur returned to America as a passenger in the New York to avoid international complications.

In 1801 the frigate Essex, Captain William Bainbridge, was lying at Barcelona. One night as the captain was going off to the Essex, the commander of a Spanish guard-boat, in the harbor, hailed him and with vulgar and abusive language ordered him to bring the gig alongside the guard-boat. Captain Bainbridge paid no attention to the words, and the Spaniards fired several musket-shots at him.

Then Bainbridge pulled alongside the guard-boat, supposing some mistake had been made. To his surprise the Spaniard insolently ordered him to come on board. At that Bainbridge rowed away, in spite of the Spaniard’s threats to fire, and, being long-suffering, paid no further attention to the matter.

The next night, however, Decatur, who was executive officer of the Essex, was on shore with some of the other lieutenants, and when they were going off they were insulted in much the same fashion.

That was too much for Decatur. Going over to the guard-boat next morning, he asked for its captain. Unfortunately, that official was on shore. Learning this, Decatur said:

“Tell him that Lieutenant Decatur, of the frigate Essex, pronounces him a cowardly scoundrel, and that when they meet on shore he will cut his ears off.”

Then he went back to the Essex. The guard-boat officers made haste ashore and informed the Commandante of the Port as well as their captain, who, it appears, was a man of influence. Straightway the Commandante wrote to Bainbridge asking that the lieutenants of the Essex be kept on board ship in order to prevent a personal altercation between Decatur and the guard-boat captain. Of course Bainbridge refused the insolent request, sending word that if the Spanish captain did not know how to treat American officers as gentlemen, he must take the consequences.

Finding himself unable to wriggle clear of the trouble, the Spaniard, rather than fight, made a humble apology. He was censured by his superior also, and the King, on hearing the story, issued a special edict ordering all officials to “treat all officers of the United States with courtesy, and more particularly those attached to the United States frigate Essex.”

When the War of 1812 was ended and the new American ships, that, like the Guerrière, were named for victories over the British, arrived at Gibraltar, en route to thrash the African pirates once more, the feelings of the British officers on the station were so wrought up by the presence of the Yankees that a number of duels were fought. A brief tradition of one of them shall serve to illustrate the spirit of them all.

An American lieutenant, on going ashore, was publicly insulted by six British officers, who were all challenged by the American, and it was arranged that he should meet one each day at sunrise, should he survive long enough, until he had had satisfaction from them all. For four mornings the American lieutenant rode away to the duelling ground, and each day rode back again leaving the Englishmen to bring in the dead body of their man. But on the next morning, as he rode out with the fifth, there being no one in the party but the principals, their seconds, and the surgeons, a mob of British partisans, well-armed and disguised as highwaymen, came galloping toward them. As it happened, the Englishman was riding a thoroughbred animal and the American lieutenant a worthless scrub.

Seeing the mob coming the Englishman’s face paled with anger.

“They are coming to kill you,” he said to the American lieutenant. “You take my horse and you can escape them, and we will settle this affair at another time.”

Convinced by both the English principal and his second that the mob was really bent on murder, the American accepted the horse, and by hard riding did escape. But after that he did not have the heart to kill the one who had shown himself so much of a man. The Englishman was willing to apologize, and so was the remaining one who had been challenged, and the American, with hearty good-will, accepted their explanations.

There were personal combats of another kind growing out of the European dislike for the American Republic. Decatur was once on shore at night with Midshipman Macdonough, in Naples, when a gang of three armed ruffians attacked them. Decatur promptly cut down two of them with his sword, when the third, who had attacked Macdonough especially, fled. Macdonough pursued him. Running into an open door, the fellow fled to the roof of the house with Macdonough close on his heels. On reaching the roof and finding the Yankee still after him, he jumped from it, and was instantly killed by the fall.

Of a very different nature from a moralist’s point of view at the present time were the duels the American naval officers fought among themselves. The story of the first—probably the only one—fought by the lamented Somers, who lost his life before Tripoli, will serve better than any other to show the spirit of the naval officers of the day.

As related in the “United States Naval Chronicle,” Somers and Decatur, who were intimate friends, were one day chaffing one another in the presence of some other young officers, and in the course of the remarks Decatur called Somers a fool. Somers, of course, paid no attention to the epithet, for it was said in mere play. But the other youngsters, five in number, took the matter seriously, and the next day refused to accept Somers’s invitation to join him in a bottle of wine.

Somers, very greatly astonished, asked why, and they explained frankly that they thought he had failed to show a spirit proper for a naval officer when he was called a fool.

Immediately Somers went to Decatur and related the facts. Decatur said at once that he would give a dinner at which he would explain the whole matter, and place Somers right before his fellow-officers, but Somers said:

“They have allowed themselves to suspect my courage. I must convince them that they are mistaken; and my only course is to fight them all.”

Decatur acted as second for Somers, delivered the five challenges, and it was arranged that Somers should meet them in succession during one hour. So they gathered at a convenient place and Somers faced his first man. At the word both fired, and Somers missed, but got his own right arm pierced with the bullet of his antagonist.

At this Decatur wanted to take his place, but Somers refused and stood up and fired at the second man, using his wounded arm. Again he missed and again was himself struck, this time in the hip, the wound bleeding so profusely that Somers was soon too weak to stand. Nevertheless he insisted on having the third man come on.

When the third man took his stand Somers was unable either to stand erect or to hold out a pistol steadily. So Decatur sat down on Somers’s left side, put his right arm around Somers’s body until he could help support the weight of Somers’s right arm, and in this position the word was given. At this shot Somers managed to wound his antagonist.

The whole five were by this time so much impressed by the pluck and persistence of the young fellow that they made ample apology for having misjudged him.

It is because of the spirit which Somers showed on this occasion that several writers of American history have expressed the belief that, on finding the ketch Intrepid caught by the Tripolitans when he was taking her into the harbor, he did deliberately fire her magazine. He was of the nature that would rather die than fail. What a pity it was that he did not live to command a ship in the next war!

Commodore Perry once stood up to face an antagonist, a Captain Heath, whom he had offended—but Perry and his second, Stephen Decatur, were agreed that Heath had had just cause of offence, and Perry refused to fire. The trouble was compromised after Heath had fired once.

Last of all was the duel that ended Decatur’s life—unquestionably the most famous duel known to the annals of the navy, and one that created almost as much stir in the nation as that between Hamilton and Burr. Moreover, it is one that should not fade from memory, for the one reason, if for no other, that it came as a direct result of the attack of the British frigate Leopard upon the American frigate Chesapeake, in time of peace, for the purpose of taking three impressed American seamen that had escaped from their slavery in the British navy.

Commodore James Barron, as the reader will remember, was suspended from the navy because he had gone to sea with his ship unprepared for action, although the British officers at Norfolk had been very free in making threats. In the course of years it became Decatur’s duty, as one of the Naval Commissioners, to decide on the advisability of restoring Barron to active service. Barron had continually protested that his punishment was “cruel and unmerited,” and had made many attempts to get into active service, but Decatur was unable to approve of all that Barron had done. Decatur distinctly “disclaimed all personal enmity toward him,” but said frankly that “he entertained and did still entertain the opinion that his conduct, since that affair, had been such as ought forever to bar his readmission into the service.” Barron had remained out of the United States during all the War of 1812, although the term for which he was suspended was but five years. It was this, added to Barron’s failure to have the Chesapeake ready for a fight, that influenced Decatur.

The correspondence between Barron and Decatur on the subject of Barron’s readmission began in June, 1819, and ended in February, 1820. Barron’s last letter to Decatur was dated at Norfolk, January 16, 1820. It said:

To this Decatur replied on January 24th as follows:

On March 22, 1820, they met at Bladensburg, near Washington. Decatur was accompanied by Commodore Bainbridge and Barron by Captain Elliott, who, perhaps because his own conduct in the face of the enemy had been assailed, was a strong partisan of Barron.

Henry Austin, in an interesting account of this duel, says that Bladensburg was chosen as the site of the duel by Decatur because it was “near the city of Washington,” where Decatur was then living, and the “inconvenience of a man lying wounded at a distance from his own home.” Pistols were the weapons chosen. The following letter describing the event is by one who saw the duel:

Austin says that “after being shot, Decatur stood for a moment erect, but was observed by Dr. Treditt, as subsequently communicated to Dr. Washington, the other doctor, to press his hand to his right side. He then fell, the ball having passed through his abdomen. He remarked, ‘I am mortally wounded. At least, I believe so, and wish that I had fallen in defence of my country.’”

The ball from Barron’s pistol entered Decatur’s body two inches above the right hip and, passing through the abdomen, lodged against the opposite side. It was necessarily a mortal wound in those days, and there would be but faint hope of a man surviving it in these days of skilful surgery.

Decatur’s shot struck the upper part of Barron’s right hip and turned to the rear—a severe but not a mortal wound. There is no doubt that Decatur deliberately inflicted a wound that would not prove mortal. Decatur had a fight with the mate of a merchant ship in 1799, in which he wounded the mate precisely as he wounded Barron. He was a dead shot when he chose to be.

Decatur died in the arms of his wife at the mansion on an estate known as Kalorama, a mile from Georgetown, on the night of the duel. He was but forty years old. His body was deposited in a vault at Kalorama on the 24th in the presence of a tremendous concourse of people, including nearly all the officials, American and foreign, of the capital. His pallbearers were Commodores Tingey, Macdonough, Rodgers, and Porter, Captains Cassin, Ballard, and Chauncey, Generals Brown and Jesup, and Lieutenant McPherson. His body was removed to Philadelphia in 1844, where it was deposited in St. Peter’s churchyard. “An Ionic marble pillar on which an American eagle stands triumphant,” marks the grave.

Barron’s wound confined him to his boarding-house in Washington (Norfolk was his home) for three weeks. He was restored to active service in 1825; and in 1839 had become the senior officer of the navy. He was then placed on waiting orders, when he retired to Norfolk, where he died on April 21, 1851, aged eighty-two years. His name had been on the naval register fifty-three years. Having missed the opportunity to make a great name for himself by sinking the Leopard, as he ought to have done, he never had another one. He was something of an inventor, but his career in the navy is worth mentioning only as showing a youthful officer what not to be.