Of great renown in the annals of the American Navy is the name of Porter, for the deeds of Captain David Porter with the little frigate Essex fill a large space in the story of the War of 1812; while those of David D. Porter, the son of Captain David Porter, during the Civil War, of which the story will be told farther on, raised him to the highest rank.

The second cruise of the Essex began on October 28, 1812, when she sailed from the Delaware bound across the ocean to Port Praya, Cape de Verde, to meet the Constitution and the Hornet and join in a cruise against British commerce in the far East. Her luck in winds having made the passage longer than anticipated, she arrived after the Constitution and Hornet had sailed for Brazil. Having replenished his stores at Port Praya, Captain Porter stood away toward the coast of Africa from Port Praya in order to deceive the people as to his destination, and then ran away toward the island of Fernando de Noronha, where he expected once more to meet his consorts. This passage was without event until December 11, 1812, when at 2 o’clock in the afternoon a sail was seen to windward. Thereat the British signals captured from the Alert in the first cruise were displayed, but they failed to bring the stranger, which was soon seen to be a large brig, toward the Essex. So Porter stood up toward the brig, and by nightfall was near enough to see that she was flying British colors; and a little later she displayed night-signals. When Porter was seen to be unable to answer these, the crew of the brig crowded on all sail and manœuvred with skill to escape, but at 9 o’clock at night the Essex was alongside, and after a volley of musketry from the Yankee, the brig struck. She proved to be the British packet, Nocton, of ten guns and thirty-one men. Her cargo included $55,000 in coin. The coin was taken out and the brig sent toward home under a prize-crew of seventeen men, but she was recaptured by the swift-sailing Belvidera when near Bermuda.

The Essex reached Fernando de Noronha on December 14th, and there found a letter from Commodore Bainbridge. As this port was frequented by British men-of-war this letter was signed with the name of the captain of a British ship, the Acasta—Bainbridge having caused the Brazilian authorities of the island to believe that the Constitution and the Hornet were the Acasta and the Morgiana—and directed Porter to pose as Sir James Yeo, of the Southampton, on reaching the island. Because of this diplomacy—because Porter took a letter which Bainbridge had written to him under the name of Sir James Yeo—British writers have said he was guilty of conduct unbecoming to a gentleman and officer!

The letter was double; there was one letter in common ink that meant very little, and on the back of this was another in lime-juice that directed Porter to meet the Constitution and Hornet off Cape Frio.

To Cape Frio, a lofty and most picturesque point on the Brazilian coast, went Porter, and there he lay under short sail, filling and backing, on the day when Bainbridge, with the Constitution, won the memorable victory over the British frigate Java. He remained cruising off the Brazilian coast for several days, capturing the British schooner Elizabeth meantime, and eventually put into St. Catharine’s, where he learned what had happened off Bahia, including the fact that the British ship-of-the-line Montagu had driven the Hornet off to the north.

So Porter was left free to choose his own course. It was characteristic of the man that he should have decided, in spite of the fact that the Spaniards, who controlled the west coast of South America, were practically allies of Great Britain, that he would round the Horn and destroy the British shipping in the southern Pacific. He could not hope for a really friendly reception in any port there, but he was confident that he could live off the enemy. Sailing from St. Catharine’s on January 26, 1813, he found an enemy on board his ship next day which we, in this era of the medical science, can scarcely appreciate. A form of dysentery appeared among the crew that was apparently contagious, or was, at least, caused by conditions that threatened the whole crew. It was especially dangerous from the fact that he was bound around the Horn, where the weather would compel the closing of ports, hatches, and companion-ways, and so prevent ventilating the ship. But the commonsense of the captain served where the knowledge of medicine failed, for he adopted what would now be called rigorous sanitary measures; he kept the ship and crew absolutely clean and so stopped the epidemic and preserved the health of the crew in a way unheard of, in those days of scurvy and ship fever.

The ship made the Horn in February, the end of the southern summer season—the season of the fiercest gales in that region. The weather became frightful. The seas broke over the little frigate continually, gun-deck ports were broken in fore and aft, extra spars were swept overboard, and boats were knocked to pieces at the davits by the waves. At one time the boatswain was so terrified by the assaults of the sea that he shouted:

“The ship’s side is stove in. We are sinking!” and for a brief time there was a panic among some of the crew.

“This was the only instance in which I ever saw a regular good seaman paralyzed by fear of the perils of the sea,” wrote Midshipman Farragut.

However, early in March the Essex anchored at Mocha Island, where an abundance of hogs and horses were found running wild. The crew had a good time hunting both, and a large quantity of the meat of each was salted down for future use. From here the Essex sailed to Valparaiso, where it was learned that Chili had declared herself free of Spain.

Sailing from Valparaiso on March 20, 1813, Porter fell in with the American whaler Charles, of Nantucket, and learned that a Spanish ship of the coast had captured the American whalers Walker and Barclay off Coquimbo, only two days before.

At this, Porter headed for the scene of the trouble, and the next morning (March 26th) saw a sail.

“Immediately, from her appearance and the description I had received of her, I knew her to be one of the picaroons that had been for a long time harassing our commerce,” wrote Porter in his journal. So he hoisted British colors and sailed up beside the stranger and learned that she was the Peruvian cruiser Nereyda, of fifteen guns. Her commander being deceived by the British flag, boasted of having captured the two Yankee whalers. Then Porter got from him a list of the British ships in those waters, with a description of each, so far as the Peruvian could remember. This done, Porter disclosed the character of the Essex to the astonished Peruvian, threw overboard all the guns and arms of his corsairs, and wrote a letter to the Viceroy of Peru telling why this was done, after which the Nereyda was allowed to go.

Porter’s next work was in “disguising our ship, which was done by painting in such a manner as to conceal her real force and exhibit in its stead the appearance of painted guns, etc.; also by giving her the appearance of having a poop, and otherwise so altering her as to make her look like a Spanish merchant-vessel.”

The sailormen were still at this work when a sail was seen that, when captured, proved to be the British whaler Barclay. With this vessel in company the Essex sailed to the Galapagos group, where, on April 29th, the British whaler Montezuma, with 1,400 barrels of whale oil on board, was taken. On the same day the whalers Georgiana and Policy were overhauled. The wind having failed, Porter got out his boats to attack these two vessels. When the boats drew near the Georgiana her crew gave three cheers at the sight of the American flag and one of them shouted, “We are all Americans.” And that was very near the truth, for she was a British whaler, licensed as a letter of marque, and had a pressed crew of whom the majority were Americans. The Policy surrendered also without a fight. As the Georgiana was pierced for eighteen guns, and was a smart sailer, Porter transferred the ten guns carried by the Policy to her, which, with the six she already had on board, made her quite a respectable cruiser. She was manned by forty-one men under Lieutenant Downes. It was estimated that the three ships taken, with their cargoes, were worth $500,000; but their real value to Porter was in the fact that they carried an abundance of spare canvas, cordage, etc., so that he was able to fit out the Essex with new sails, running gear, and standing rigging wherever needed, and provide liberally for future needs.

On May 28th another sail was seen, but as night came on she was lost to view. Next morning, however, she was sighted from the Montezuma, and after a long chase was taken by the Essex. This prize was the letter-of-marque whaler Atlantic, mounting eight eighteen-pounders, and reputed as the fastest ship in those waters. She was commanded by a man named Weir, “who had the pusillanimity to say that ‘though he was an American-born he was an ‘Englishman at heart,’” so wrote Midshipman Farragut.

That same evening another vessel was seen, and late at night she was captured also. She proved to be the letter-of-marque whaler Greenwich, a ship that had sailed from England under convoy of the ill-fated Java. She was full of ship-stores and provisions of every kind, and had on board, moreover, one hundred tons of water and eight hundred large tortoises, sufficient to furnish all the ships with fresh provisions for a month.

“The little squadron now consisted of the Essex, forty-six guns and two hundred and forty-five men; the Georgiana, sixteen guns and forty-two men; the Greenwich, ten guns and fourteen men; the Atlantic, six guns and twelve men; the Montezuma, two guns and ten men; the Policy and the Barclay of ten and seven men, respectively; in all, seven ships carrying eighty guns and three hundred and forty men.” The prisoners numbered eighty. As the number of prizes as well as prisoners proved burdensome, Captain Porter sailed on June 8th for the mainland, and reached Guayaquil Bay on the 19th. Here some provisions were obtained, and while lying here the Georgiana, with her crew of forty men, was sent on a cruise under Lieutenant Downes. The character of Downes was well illustrated on this cruise. Near James Island two British ships were found and secured without a fight. They were the Catherine, of eight guns and twenty-nine men, and the Rose, of eight guns and twenty-one men. Securing his fifty prisoners on the Georgiana, Downes sent ten of his men to each craft taken, and sailed on. That same night another ship was overhauled, and her captain, instead of surrendering when called on to do so, ordered his guns cleared for action.

Downes had but twenty men with which to handle his ship, work his guns, and guard his prisoners, but he promptly opened fire, and after the fifth broadside the enemy surrendered. She proved to be the British letter-of-marque Hector, of eleven guns and twenty-five men. She had lost in the fight her maintopmast and most of her standing and running rigging, and two of her crew were killed and six dangerously wounded.

On manning the Hector with ten men Downes had but ten left with which to guard more than seventy prisoners, care for the wounded, and work the ship. In this emergency he threw overboard the guns of the Rose, destroyed most of her cargo, and made a cartel of her to which to send the prisoners. Then he returned to Guayaquil Bay, from which the Rose sailed for St. Helena.

At Guayaquil a part of the armament and crew of the Georgiana were transferred to the larger and swifter Atlantic, which was rechristened Essex Junior, and the latter was ordered to convoy a part of the fleet of prizes to Valparaiso.

It is worth telling, because of the fame he afterward earned, that Midshipman Farragut was placed on the Barclay as prize-master—was made the captain of the ship. Her original captain had agreed to act as navigator, but he was greatly angered, for some reason, at the order to go to Valparaiso, and when outside he backed the maintopsail and refused to fill away and follow the Essex Junior, declaring “that he would shoot any man who dared to touch a rope without his orders.” Then he went below to get his pistols.

He afterward said he did it merely to scare the lad, but if that were so he failed, for Farragut called an able American seaman, and told him to have the main-sails filled away. This was done, and then Farragut told the obdurate captain “not to come on deck unless he wished to be thrown overboard,” and the captain remained below until Farragut made a report of the affair to Lieutenant Downes, of the Essex Junior, and the Britisher agreed to submit quietly to Farragut as captain. Farragut was at this time but twelve years old. Not many boys of twelve would be fit for such a responsible position at that age, and fewer still have had opportunity to show their metal.

The Greenwich was made a store-ship, and the Essex, with her and the Georgiana as consorts, sailed on another cruise, leaving Guayaquil on July 9, 1813. On July 13th, when off Banks Bay, three ships were seen. They separated as soon as the Americans were sighted, whereupon the Essex went in chase, leaving the Georgiana and Greenwich behind. Seeing this, one of the strangers came about and stood for the Greenwich. At that the Greenwich backed her main-yard, brought a number of men from the Georgiana on board, and sailed boldly to meet the stranger.

While these two were approaching each other the Essex overhauled the vessel she was pursuing, and found it was the British whaler Charlton of ten guns and twenty-one men. Her captain informed Porter that the stranger approaching the Greenwich was the Seringapatam, a ship of 357 tons, carrying fourteen guns and forty men. She not only outweighed the metal of the Greenwich, but had a larger crew, and was the most dangerous ship in those waters. Nevertheless Porter saw serenely the two ships engage in battle, nor was his confidence in his officers and men misplaced, for, after a brief conflict, the Seringapatam hauled down her flag. A little later, however, she suddenly made sail and strove to escape. The Greenwich at once opened fire on her and kept it up until the British flag was lowered again. It is likely, however, that the Seringapatam would have escaped but for the rapid approach of the Essex, for she could outsail the Greenwich.

Meantime the third ship, the New Zealander, of eight guns and twenty-three men, was taken by the Essex. On overhauling the papers of the Seringapatam it appeared that, although she had no commission either as privateer or letter of marque, she had captured one American whaler, trusting to have the capture legalized by a commission she was expecting to arrive. As his act was really one of piracy the captain was sent to the United States for trial, but he was not convicted.

The other prisoners were put on the Charlton and sent under parole to Rio Janeiro. The guns of the New Zealander were transferred to the Seringapatam, giving her a battery of twenty-two, though this was of no great use, save for one broadside, for the reason that she had only men enough to work her sails. Then the Georgiana was loaded with a full cargo of oil, manned with such of the crew of the Essex as had served their full time and also wished to go home (most of those whose time was up re-shipped in the Essex), and on July 25th she sailed for the United States.

The Essex with the other three headed for Albemarle Island, and on July 28th sighted another British whaler. It was a region and a season of light airs and calms, but the Essex rigged a drag that when dropped in the water from the spritsail-yard was hauled aft by a line running through a block on the end of an outrigger aft, and this, although laborious, gave the ship a speed of two knots per hour. As the whaler got out boats to tow his ship, Porter sent a couple of boats of musketeers to drive them on board again. So she was headed off and then other boats were sent to board her. The stranger then hauled down her flag, but before the boats could get alongside a breeze came. At that she hoisted her colors, fired on the Yankee boats and escaped, for the Essex did not get the wind until too late. Porter was greatly mortified for the reason that this was the first ship that had escaped him.

However, on September 15th, while cruising among the Galapagos Islands, a whaler was seen cutting in a whale. The Essex was disguised by sending down the small yards, and succeeded in getting within four miles of her before she took alarm, and then by making sail Porter overhauled her. It was now learned that she was the Sir Andrew Hammond, of twelve guns and thirty-one men, and that she was the ship that had run away on July 28th. Luckily for the Essex she had ample stores of excellent beef, pork, bread, wood, and water.

Returning now to Banks Bay, the appointed rendezvous, the Essex was joined by the Essex Junior. Lieutenant Downes brought the news from Valparaiso that several English frigates had been sent to hunt the Essex. At this Porter determined to go to the Marquesas Islands, where he could give the Essex a thorough overhauling in safety. He had cleared those waters of the British whalers and letters of marque, and determined to fit his ship for a battle with equal force before sailing for home. He reached Nukahiva with his squadron on October 23d, built a fort to protect the harbor, and immediately began taking down the masts of the Essex in order to make everything aloft—spars and rigging—as sound as possible. In November the New Zealander was sent home with a full cargo of oil, but, unfortunately for the Americans, both she and the Georgiana, sent previously, were recaptured when almost in port by British blockaders. They were very rich prizes for the British tars.

Nukahiva lies in the tropical climate of the South Pacific—a climate where the sea and the air dance together under an unclouded sun; where the wanton waves tumble and roll invitingly on the beeches; where seemingly the wind-driven light splashes the swaying fronds of the cocoanut-palms; where the air of night is soft and sweet and wooing; where nature asks no labor in return for her bounties; where the thoughts of the people run only to war and love. It was to Jack the ideal country—a paradise on earth.

There were several tribes on Nukahiva. The sailors made friends with those living close at hand, and subdued those, from farther away who came to make trouble. And thereafter they worked upon the ships by day, and at night, by turns, frolicked with the friendly natives.

Says Farragut in his journal:

“During our stay at this island the youngsters—I among the number—were sent on board the vessel commanded by our chaplain for the purpose of continuing our studies away from temptation.”

The prisoners, having liberty as well as the crews, not only went looking for temptation but they got together and planned to get in a lot of native canoes and carry the Essex Junior by assault, when, the Essex being dismantled, they hoped to capture the entire Yankee force. A traitor revealed the plot, however, and the prisoners were thereafter kept well in hand.

And then came an incipient mutiny. The sailormen had enjoyed life with their friends, the Nukahivas, so much that when, in December, Porter determined to go in search of an enemy worthy of the ship, they first grumbled, and then some of them, under the lead of an Englishman named Robert White, talked of refusing to go at all.

This talk reached flood-tide when on Sunday, December 9, 1813, a lot of the men from the Essex visited the Essex Junior, when White openly boasted that the crew would refuse to get the anchor at the word from Captain Porter. But White was very much mistaken. His words were reported to Porter, who, next morning, mustered the men on the port side of the deck and then, with a drawn sword lying across the capstan before him, said:

“All of you who are in favor of weighing the anchor when I give the order, pass over to the starboard side.”

They all passed across the deck promptly. Then he called out White, and asked him about his Sunday boasting. White denied having made the boast, but a number of the crew testified to what he had said, and at that Porter turned on the fellow and said in a burst of anger:

“Run, you scoundrel, for your life.”

“And away the fellow went over the starboard gangway.” So Farragut tells the story. He was picked up by one of the ever-present native canoes and carried ashore.

After all it was a lucky affair for him, for the cruise of the Essex was drawing to a close, and had he remained in her he would have been hanged, very likely, by his countrymen as a traitor.

Having addressed the men briefly, praising their good qualities and telling them he “would blow them all to eternity before they should succeed in a conspiracy,” he ordered them to man the capstan, a fiddler began to play “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” the “anchor fairly flew to the bows,” the sails were spread, and the Essex and Essex Junior sailed away, leaving Lieutenant John Gamble with twenty-one men, to look after the Seringapatam, the Sir Andrew Hammond, and the Greenwich until Porter could return for them.