At one period of our naval history none connected with it enjoyed a higher reputation for patriotic and headlong valor than Captain Silas Talbot, one of the earliest commanders of that renowned frigate Old Ironsides.
He came naturally by his adventurous disposition and high standard of courage. He was a lineal descendant of that Richard de Talbot who witnessed the grant that Walter Gifford, Earl of Buckingham, made to the monks of Cerasir, in the reign of William the Conqueror. The earldom of Shrewsbury was bestowed, in the fifteenth century, upon John Talbot for his skill and prowess in war. It is remarkable that one of his ancestors was the antagonist of the Maid of Orleans, and another had the custody of Mary Queen of Scots.
Silas Talbot was left an orphan at 12 years of age, at the town of Dighton, and went to sea as a cabin boy. He also learned the trade of a stonemason, acquired property, and married at the age of 21. The first notes of the Revolution found Talbot with his companions drilling under the guidance of an old Scotch drum-major. Finding an opportunity to join the American camp near Boston, he accompanied the army to New York, when his knowledge of nautical matters obtained for him the command of a fireship. Three of the enemy’s ships were anchored near the mouth of the Hudson, the largest being the Asia, of sixty-four guns.
Singling this vessel out as the object of his attack, Talbot, at 2 o’clock in the morning, dropped down with the tide, and threw his grappling irons on board as the Asia opened fire. In an instant the flames of the fire-ship were leaping above the lower yards of the huge vessel, and Talbot, who had lingered on board until the last moment, suffered terribly from the injuries received. His skin was blistered from head to foot, his dress almost entirely destroyed, and his eyesight for the time destroyed. His companions succeeded in carrying him clear in a fast-pulling boat, finding shelter in a poor cabin, where medical aid was at last procured for the sufferer. Meanwhile the Asia, by strenuous efforts, had cleared herself from the blazing craft, and, badly injured, had dropped down the river.
For this service, Congress, on October 10, 1777, passed a resolution of thanks, promoting him to the rank of Major, and recommending him to Gen. Washington for “employment agreeable to his rank,” and he shortly after found an opportunity to gain further distinction and a severe wound in the hip, in an attack on the enemy. Under Gen. Sullivan he gathered eighty-six flatboats for transportation of the army on Long Island, which was instrumental in preventing disaster when a retreat was ordered.
The English, while in possession of Newport, moored a stout vessel off the mouth of the Seconset River, providing her with twelve 8-pounders and ten swivels. Strong boarding nettings were attached, while a crew of forty-five men under Lieut. Dunlap, of the Royal Navy, commanded the craft, which had been named the Pigot.
Upon this vessel Maj. Talbot had his eye for some time, but could obtain no suitable means of getting a party afloat. He finally gained possession of a sloop, equipped her with two 3-pounders, manned by sixty men. On a dark and foggy night Talbot embarked with his men, allowing the old sloop to drift under bare poles, until the loom of the great boat was seen through the fog. Down swept the coasting sloop; the sentinels hailed, but before one of the Pigot’s guns could be used the jibboom of the opposing craft had torn its way through the boarding nettings, affording an opportunity for the attacking party to board, sword in hand. The vessel was quickly carried, the commander fighting desperately, en dishabille, and when compelled to surrender wept over his miserable disgrace. Not a man had been lost in this affair, and the prize was carried safely into Stonington.
For this exploit Talbot received a handsome letter from Henry Laurens, President of Congress, and was promoted to a Lieutenant-Colonelcy in the army. The Assembly of his native State presented him with a sword, while the British termed him, “One of the greatest arch-rebels in nature.”
In 1779 he was commissioned a Captain in the navy, but with no national vessel for him to command. He was instructed to arm a naval force sufficient to protect the coast from Long Island to Nantucket. Congress was too poor to assist him, and only by great efforts was he able to fit out the prize Pigot and a sloop called the Argo. Humble as this craft was, Talbot assumed command without a moment’s hesitation and proved what a man of valor and determination could achieve with meagre means. The sloop was an old-fashioned craft from Albany, square, wide stern, bluff bow, and steered with a tiller. Her battery consisted of ten and afterward twelve guns, two of which were mounted in the cabin. With a crew of sixty, few of whom were seamen or had seen service, the gallant Captain sailed from Providence on a cruise in May, 1779.
Exercising and drilling his men, he soon had them in fair shape, enabling him to capture one vessel of twelve guns and two letter-of-marque brigs from the West Indies. The prizes, with their cargoes, were greatly needed by the authorities, while the successes attending the efforts of the men greatly increased their confidence.
There was a Tory privateer of fourteen guns called the King George, commanded by a Capt. Hazard, manned by eighty men, whose depredations along the coast had made the craft a terror to the inhabitants. For a meeting with this craft Capt. Talbot ardently longed, but was baffled for quite a while. But fortune one clear day smiled upon the Continental craft, the lookout espying the King George about 100 miles off shore from Long Island. The Argo ran the enemy aboard, clearing her deck with one raking broadside, driving her crew below hatches, and capturing the privateer without the loss of a man.
Shortly after the sloop met a large armed West Indiaman, who fought desperately for over four hours. Talbot had the skirts of his coat shot away, losing a number of men by the well-directed fire of the enemy, and only succeeded in making his antagonist strike when his main-mast went by the board.
The career of the sloop was brought to an abrupt termination by the owners’ demanding her return, but not before Capt. Talbot had secured six good prizes and 300 prisoners.
Capt. Talbot was now informed by Congress that “the government had every desire to give him a respectable command, but absolutely lacked the means to do it.” Succeeding to the command of a private armed ship, Talbot made but one prize, when he found himself one morning in the midst of a large fleet of English men-of-war. Resistance was impossible, and as a prisoner the Captain was transferred to the notorious Jersey prison ship, from which he was in time removed to the jail in New York, ruled by the cruel and infamous Cunningham.
In November, 1780, in company with seventy other prisoners, they were marched to the ship Yarmouth, driven into the hold, destitute of clothing and bedding, making the passage to England amid such suffering and misery that beggars description. Talbot seemed to bear a charmed life, passing unscathed through the horrors and death about him, and was finally placed in the Dartmoor prison, out of which he made a daring attempt to escape, and was confined in a dungeon forty days as punishment. On three occasions he incurred the same penalty for similar attempts, meeting his disappointments and hardships with characteristic fortitude and courage.
Talbot gained his liberty through exchange for a British officer in France, finding himself destitute and half-naked in a foreign land. He landed at Cherbourg in December, 1781, after having been a prisoner for fifteen months. At Paris Capt. Talbot was assisted by Franklin and sailed for home in a brig, but fifteen days only after leaving port she was captured by the Jupiter, an English privateer. But Talbot was treated with kindness and courtesy by the captain, who transferred him to a brig they encountered on her way from Lisbon to New York.
He now retired to a farm, where he remained with his family until 1794. He had served his country faithfully, both on land and water, bearing on his person more or less of British lead, which he carried to his grave. He had been specially mentioned by Congress on several occasions, and occupied a high place in the estimation of Washington and the principal officers of the Continental army. But with the dawn of peace he was allowed to remain in his place of retirement without further acknowledgment from the government he had served so well.
In 1794, when Congress enacted a law to enlarge the naval force in order to check the depredations of the Algerians, among the six experienced officers selected to command the frigates was Capt. Talbot.
After hostilities with France had commenced, one of the squadrons in the West Indies was placed under his command, and he flew a broad pennant on board Old Ironsides in 1799, on the St. Domingo station. Isaac Hull, as First Lieutenant, was Captain of the frigate, and other officers served under Talbot’s command who afterward became famous on the rolls of fame.
It was while Old Ironsides had Talbot for a commander that she captured her first prize. This vessel had been the British packet Sandwich, and only waited to complete a cargo of coffee to make a run for France. Capt. Talbot resolved to cut her out, and a force of seamen and marines were placed on board an American sloop and the command given to the gallant Hull. The Sandwich was lying with her broadside bearing on the channel, with a battery to protect her. But so well was the movements of the sloop conducted that the Sandwich was carried without the loss of a man. At the same time Capt. Cormick landed with the marines and spiked the guns of the battery.
THE “MIANTONOMOH” (DOUBLE-TURRETED MONITOR).
GUN-BOATS ON WESTERN RIVER.
(Destruction of the Confederate Ram Arkansas.)
The Sandwich was stripped to a girtline, with all the gear stowed below; but before sunset she had royal yards across, her guns sealed, and the prize crew mustered at the guns. Soon after she was under way, beat out of the harbor and joined the frigate. Hull gained great credit for the skill with which he had carried out the object of the expedition, and at the time the affair made quite a sensation among the various cruisers on the West India station.
Talbot was jealous of his rank and the dignity attached to his station in the service. His courage, ability, and devotion to his country were all beyond question. A question arose relative to the seniority of rank between himself and Commodore Truxton, in which the Secretary of the Navy gave the preference to Truxton.
This led the old veteran to tender his resignation and enjoy the fairly earned repose of honorable age. President John Adams wrote to Talbot requesting him to remain in the service, but the old sailor replied, “Neither my honor nor reputation would permit me to be commanded by Capt. Truxton, because he was, in fact, a junior officer.”
Commodore Talbot, in withdrawing from the service, took with him his two sons, who were following in their father’s footsteps, and, purchasing land for them in Kentucky, alternated between New York and the home established by his sons.
He was thirteen times wounded and carried five bullets in his body. In his intercourse with others, his hospitality and social duties, he carried himself with rare dignity and grace, and was one of the finest specimens of a self-made American officer the country produced. He died in the city of New York on June 30, 1813, and was buried under Trinity Church.
His name and deeds of valor are enrolled among the proudest of patriot heroes of the country.
The Revolutionary War gave birth to a valorous and dashing class of men who operated along Long Island Sound, the shores of Long Island, and the Jersey coast, from New York Bay to Tom’s River, and other inlets and harbors. There were many of them, and they were an astonishing set of men. Some had small sloops mounting two small cannon, but the most effective work was accomplished in whaleboats. It is singular that naval history and works treating on naval subjects have failed to record or give the proper place in history to the brave and dashing deeds achieved by the whaleboat navy of the Revolution. They made themselves feared and hated by their foes, and the British vessels that these men captured seem beyond belief, were not the records of their work very clear and extensive. They took vessels with valuable cargoes, burning or blowing up whatever prizes they could not easily bring to port.
George Raymond, the acting sailing-master of the Bon-Homme Richard, commanded by the celebrated Paul Jones, resided at Brooklyn, Long Island, and was instrumental in fitting out a number of whaleboat expeditions. He had made two voyages to India previous to entering the service under Jones, a very rare occurrence for an American in those early days.
The whaleboat fleet belonging to Connecticut was specially well organized, manned, and effective. From their numerous haunts and hiding-places they would sally forth, closing with their antagonists so suddenly and furiously as to overcome all opposition, frequently carrying armed ships, making up in noise and audacity what they lacked in arms and numbers. Long Island Sound became very unsafe to British parties and Tories and they seldom ventured any great distance upon its waters, except they had protection from armed vessels. At one time, so bold and daring had the whaleboatmen become, that a frigate, a sloop of war, a corvette, and a ten-gun brig were ordered to patrol the sound and exterminate the privateersmen, placing them beyond the pale of quarter for the time being. But these measures, beyond involving additional expense to the crown, availed nothing. The whaleboatmen carried their lives in their hands, but each and all were picked men, and with a knowledge that they fought with a halter around their necks, none but men of tried valor and courage joined the ranks, while the leaders excelled in fertile resources, daring conceptions in the mode of attack, combining with all a perfect knowledge of the scene of operations.
Two of the most prominent, dashing, and successful leaders in this mosquito fleet were Capts. Mariner and Hyler. Their adventures and exploits, both in and out of their trim, lithe whaleboats, read more like romance than sober facts, and their gallant deeds are still treasured up and handed down by many a family dwelling along the shores of Long Island Sound.
It was midsummer when the following exploit was achieved, and in the full light of the moon sailing through a cloudless sky:
Capt. Mariner had for a long time contemplated a raid upon Flatbush, the resort or headquarters of a number of violent Tories, particularly obnoxious to the American officers. Gen. Washington was particularly anxious to obtain possession of the person of Cols. Axtell and Mathews, who were both active and influential loyalists, partisans of the most pronounced stripe. By some means Mariner became acquainted with the wish of Washington, and, although no communication passed between the distinguished commander-in-chief and the humble seaman, the whaleboat leader resolved to reconnoitre the locality.
Disguised in the uniform of an independent loyalist rifle company, Mariner proceeded to the tavern of Dr. Van Buren, a resort for all the prominent surrounding gentry. Entering the tap-room, which was crowded, discussions relative to the war and prominent individuals were running high and waxing exceedingly hot, as well as decidedly personal, as the disguised seamen mixed with the company. With ready wit and sarcastic tongue, the “rifleman” joined in the argument, while a Maj. Sherbook, of the British army, berated Capt. Mariner as no better than a murderer, an outlaw, and a thief. Mariner’s eyes sparkled, his hands twitching nervously as he listened to the tirade of abuse poured forth in relation to himself.
“Confound this prowling, sneaking midnight vagabond, with his ragamuffin crew,” angrily continued the Major, as he snapped a speck of froth that had dropped from his tankard upon his laced and scarlet coat sleeve; “he has developed into an intolerable nuisance in these parts, and should be checked at once. I would thrash him and his followers, single handed, with my riding whip, if ever opportunity offered. But these water-rats come and go in such a cowardly fashion that soldiers can scarcely hope to more than catch a glimpse of their flaunting rags.”
“Don’t be too sure, my dear Major, in your estimate of the water-sneaks, as you are pleased to term them. You may have a nearer glimpse of their rags and steel also than you could wish, with an opportunity to make good your threat to chastise the leader and his crew, sooner than you now dream of,” and before the surprised assemblage had recovered from their consternation and the “influence,” he had disappeared through the doorway into the darkness of the night.
Repairing at once to New Brunswick, Mariner prepared his fast light-pulling whaleboat for the trip. The crew were summoned, armed to the teeth, and when all was in readiness the long, shapely boat glided swiftly and silently to New Utrecht, where the party formed in single file on the beach at Bath, a few minutes after ten o’clock at night. Two men were detailed to watch the boat, while the remainder of the party proceeded rapidly to Flatbush Church. In the shadows of overhanging trees the men were divided into four squads, the houses they were to attack pointed out to them, each party being provided with a battering ram capable of breaking in the heaviest door at a blow. Silently and steadily the parties proceeded to their several scenes of action, Mariner having reserved the residence of the British Major as his special mission.
The signal for united and concerted action was the ringing report of a pistol. The battering ram was then to be used, prisoners secured and conveyed to the whaleboat. The attack was simultaneous in various portions of the town. Mariner, sword in hand, searched in vain for the doughty Major, but finally, when he was discovered, the shadows of a large chimney had been used as a refuge from the dreaded onslaught of the whaleboatmen. He was allowed to make up a bundle of necessaries and hurried to the boat. The parties were there—having met with more or less success—but the principal game, the officials Washington so much desired to secure, were not among the number. Business had unexpectedly summoned them to New York the day before or their capture would have been effected. After the war Capt. Mariner resided many years at Harlem and on Ward’s Island. He was classed as a strange and eccentric man, full of wit and an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes, but was not especially popular among his associates and neighbors.
One of the favorite cruising haunts of Capt. Hyler was between Egg Harbor and Staten Island. He was a man of wonderful nerve, with great power of endurance, fertile in resources, and prompt to act in situations requiring instant action.
Mention has been made of the British fleet sent to patrol the waters of the sound. The corvette, mounting twenty guns, anchored one foggy evening almost abreast of Hyler’s headquarters, a short distance from Egg Harbor. The tap of the drum and words of command from the officer of the deck could be distinctly heard on shore. Incredible as it may appear, Capt. Hyler determined to attempt the capture of the formidable cruiser. He had ascertained that the vessel was short-handed, having dropped from her station above with the intention of making an early departure for Halifax. The available force of the intrepid whaleboat commander consisted of forty-six well-armed and resolute men, expert at the oar, trained to silence and dexterity, so as not to be heard at close quarters, even with three or four boats pulling in company. Well had they been named “marine devils” by their red-coated foes.
The whaleboat’s men were divided into two parties, Hyler taking one, his Lieutenant the other. Two swift boats were soon pulling up stream, with oars muffled, keeping well in the shadows of the rugged shore. The night was intensely dark, rendering so small an object as a boat close to the surface of the water impossible to be detected by the sharpest-eyed sentry and lookout. Once in the full influence of the tide, a grapnel was thrown overboard, to which was attached a long, stout line. All hands disappeared beneath the thwarts, and but two heads were visible, the leader in the stern sheets and the bow oarsman, who veered away the line. Like a shadow, the whaleboat in charge of the Lieutenant hovered alongside the corvette, while the officer, his head on a level with the muzzle of the guns, swung himself into the forechannels to reconnoitre. The anchor watch had gathered forward, the officer of the deck was leaning idly over the cabin companionway, intent upon what was passing below, while the marine in the after gangway nodded at his post. Dropping cautiously on deck the daring whaleboatman glanced hastily about him. A book covered with canvas, hanging from a nail beside a spy-glass in a rack over the steps leading to the officers’ quarters, caught his vigilant eye. Gliding swiftly aft he grasped the coveted prize, regaining his boat without being perceived. He had secured the signal-book of the Royal Navy.
Dropping under the stern, the open windows revealed the officers drinking wine and engaging in a game of cards. Capt. Hyler listened to the report of his assistant, put the signal-book in a place of safety, and at once pulled for the corvette. The boats boarded on opposite sides, the whaleboatmen gaining the deck before an alarm was sounded, the officers, as well as the watch on deck, being secured without creating a general alarm. The surprise was complete. Prisoners were handcuffed and conveyed on shore, while the commander wept and wrung his hands when the flames of his vessel lit up the surrounding gloom, recognizing that his career as an officer had been forever disgraced. It was not until the vessel had blown up that the commander informed Capt. Hyler that the cabin transom had held £50,000 in gold.
One of the most daring exploits of Capt. Hyler was his visit to New York with his men disguised and equipped as a British press gang. The object was to secure the notorious renegade and Tory, Lippincott—Pete Lippincott—who had savagely butchered Capt. Huddy, a brave Continental officer. The patriots had offered a handsome reward for him, dead or alive, and Capt. Hyler resolved to seek him in his lair.
With a select crew in one whaleboat he sallied forth from the kilns after dark, reaching the foot of Whitehall Street as the church bells chimed 10 o’clock. Secreting the boat and leaving a guard to watch it, the party pursued their way through Canvasstown, as it was then called. It was the worst locality in the city, the lowest sink hole of iniquity possible for a human being to frequent. The house of Lippincott was reached, surrounded and the inmates secured, but the head of the family, fortunately for himself, had that night attended a cock-fight, and saved his neck from the fate he richly deserved. On the return trip down the bay a large East Indiaman was encountered, which fell an easy prize to the whaleboatmen. The crew were set adrift, the ship taken to a secure hiding-place, where the rich cargo was removed and the ship burned.
Capt. Hyler and his men once paid a visit to the house of a noted loyalist Colonel, residing at a place known as Flatlands. The Colonel was taken, the house searched, and two bags, supposed to contain guineas, passed into the whaleboat. When daylight dawned, while pulling up the Raritan, the bags were examined, and found to contain pennies, belonging to the church of Flatlands. The Colonel had the satisfaction of indulging in a hearty laugh at the expense of his captors.
Hyler operated on the land as well as upon the water, and with equal success. In addition to capturing a number of richly laden prizes, he took a Hessian Major at night from the house of Michael Bergen, at Gowanus, when his soldiers were encamped upon the lawn in front of the house. He surprised and took a Sergeant’s guard at Canarsie from the headquarters of their Captain. The guard were at supper, their muskets stacked together in the hall, with no one by to guard them, and fell an easy prize to the whaleboatmen. The arms were seized, as well as the silver belonging to the followers of the King, and while the officers were compelled to accompany their captors, the privates were directed to report to Col. Axtell, in New Jersey, with the compliments of Capt. Hyler.
On another occasion he captured four trading sloops, one of which was armed, at Sandy Hook. One was carried off, the balance burned, the share of prize money per man amounting to £400.
The captain of a vessel taken by Hyler published the following account of the affair in the Pocket in 1779:
“I was on deck with three or four men on a very pleasant evening, with our sentinel fixed. Our vessel was at anchor near Sandy Hook, and the Lion, man-of-war, about a quarter of a mile distant. It was calm and clear, with a full moon, about three hours above the horizon. Suddenly we heard several pistols discharged into the cabin and perceived at our elbows a number of armed persons, fallen, as it were, from the clouds, who ordered us to surrender in a moment or we were dead men. Upon this we were turned into the hold and the hatches barred over us. The firing, however, had alarmed the man-of-war, who hailed us and desired to know what was the matter, and Capt. Hyler was kind enough to answer for us, saying that all was well, which satisfied the cruiser.”
But a brief outline covering the deeds of the whaleboatmen of the Revolution has been given. But it will serve to convince the reader that their valorous deeds in the cause of liberty have received but scant notice and courtesy from the hands of most historians. It is impossible to restrain one’s admiration of their skill and courage, and although their usefulness ended with the Revolutionary War, their names and gallantry have a high place in naval annals.
In the Episcopal churchyard connected with the quaint village of Lewes, Del., stands a monument, stained and weather-beaten, bearing an inscription all but worn away by the action of time and force of the elements. It was erected in memory of James Drew, a valorous though reckless young American seaman who fought bravely during the Revolution. His career and services deserve a more extended and prominent place in history than the few obscure lines traced on the crumbling marble which marks the neglected resting-place of the brave but unfortunate patriot.
James Drew was an early applicant for a naval position, but, owing to a scarcity of ships, failed to obtain from Congress the commission and active service he longed for. He bore the English no love, and when serving as second mate, sailing out of Philadelphia, had been taken out of the vessel while in a West India port to serve on an English man-of-war. Drew was a tall, powerful stripling, whose breadth of chest and shoulders and bright, intelligent face formed a physique not to be passed lightly by. He was seized under the pretense of being an English deserter and quickly transferred to the deck of an English frigate. For two years he found no opportunity of escaping from his persecutors, and in that time had acquired a perfect mastery of naval drill and discipline which afterwards proved of inestimable value to the young commander. The battle of Bunker Hill had been fought when young Drew severed his connection with the Royal Navy in the following manner:
He had won the favor and good opinion of all the officers of the Medusa frigate, then lying at Halifax, save one, the Lieutenant who had been the means of impressing the young American. He had not forgotten or forgiven the bitter invectives indulged in by Drew when struggling for liberty on the deck of the molasses drogher, and to the end remained his uncompromising enemy. The officer in question had advanced in rank until he filled the position of second in command, while Drew held a warrant as gunner. On some trumped-up wrong the First Lieutenant, in the absence of his superior, summoned the object of his hatred to the quarterdeck, where, in presence of the ship’s company, he disgraced and struck the American. Drew incurred the penalty of death by knocking his persecutor down, and before a hand could be outstretched to prevent him he had leaped overboard and was swimming for the shore. The marines fired promptly upon the escaping fugitive, while four boats were piped away with orders to bring the deserter back, dead or alive. The shadows of a dark and stormy night soon enveloped the retreating form of Drew, who, diving beneath the surface, doubled on his pursuers, swam toward the frigate, coming up under the heavy counter, gaining a footing on the rudder. A passing wood schooner afforded him the opportunity of making an attempt for liberty and evading the fate which stared him in the face. He concealed himself on board until clear of the harbor, boarded another vessel that was bound down the coast, succeeding after many perils and hardships in once more regaining his native land. At Philadelphia his reputation as a seaman and navigator was well known, while Robert Morris, the great financier of the Revolution and friend of Washington, took the young man in charge. Through the influence of his powerful protector he could have had a Lieutenant’s commission in the Continental navy, but this was changed for a plan which suited young Drew’s temperament much better.
Provided with letters from Morris to a number of celebrated personages in France, Drew crossed the ocean authorized to negotiate for a large loan of gold and war material, and succeeded by dint of persuasion and the influence of Morris’ name in obtaining command of a French armed ship called the De Brock. No time was lost in preparing for sea, the only drawback to Drew’s satisfaction being the fact that his crew consisted entirely of Frenchmen. With the gold intended for the cause of liberty stowed in the run, with ammunition and small arms placed below hatches, Drew sailed for America, carrying in the cabin a number of French officers seeking service under Washington, and who had authority over the treasure, relative to its handling and disposition. The nature of the vessel, destination, and character of cargo had been kept secret as possible, enabling him to gain the sea without detention, and the course was shaped for Synopuxette Bay, near where now stands Ocean City, Md. The point was reached in safety and the contents of the De Brock’s hold were soon landed. Wagons, under the escort of soldiers, accompanied by the French passengers, conveyed both treasure and war material to Wilmington. The arms and ammunition were at once forwarded to army headquarters, while the gold, for some mysterious reason, was deposited in the cellar of a large mansion occupied by French officers serving with the Americans. There it remained all winter, so states the records, though why Robert Morris did not assume possession of the specie, which was so much needed, is not so plain.
In the spring the officers were compelled to shift their quarters, when it was discovered that the gold which had been so jealously guarded had been by some mysterious process abstracted from the original packages. The flaming torches held on high by the Frenchmen revealed naught but walls and arches of solid masonry, with windows barred and massive doors bolted and locked. No indications of violence could be found. No developments concerning the strange affair were ever unearthed, and the mystery involved with the disappearance of the gold remains a dark and forgotten episode of the Revolution.
The De Brock, meanwhile, had not been idle. Once rid of her cargo, Capt. Drew found a way of creating vacancies among the crew, until, with a freshening breeze, he passed the capes, his ship manned wholly by hardy and experienced fishermen, well drilled and anxious to meet the enemy. Early on the morning of the third day a sail was sighted in the southern offing, close hauled and standing for the De Brock. In a short time the character of the stranger was revealed, as she displayed the ensign and pennant of Old England, and on the part of the De Brock, a banner bearing the device of a rattlesnake, with thirteen rattles, coiled at the foot of a tree, in the act of striking. Both vessels had cleared for action, and no time was lost in coming to close quarters. Running before the wind, yardarm and yardarm within half pistol-shot distance, broadsides were exchanged in rapid succession. The gunnery on both sides was none of the best, which fact rendered Drew impatient, who, watching a favorable opportunity, when both vessels were enshrouded in smoke, motioned to his sailing-master, and with a crash the two vessels swung together.
“Follow me, men!” shouted the impetuous Drew, leaping on the quarterdeck of his adversary, cutlass in hand, to find himself immediately confronted by the English commander. A mutual shout of astonishment and fierce exultation from each revealed the fact that the leaders were no strangers to each other. The Lieutenant of a press gang of a few years back had won the epaulets of a commander, while his would-be victim confronted him, the leader of a powerful and well-disciplined force. As their swords crossed no heed was bestowed upon the conflict raging about them. All of their energies were concentrated upon one object, to have each other’s life-blood.
The British commander, forced backward a step as Drew pressed him fiercely, stumbled over a ringbolt and fell at his opponent’s feet.
“Resume your sword,” said Drew, contemptuously; “I prefer to kill you with your weapon in your hand.”
“Look to yourself, rebel and deserter. Your life is forfeited, and no mercy shall you receive from my hand.”
“Wait until I ask it,” was the reply, and the duel was resumed. The Englishman’s sword snapped at the hilt; but, leaping nimbly aside, he drew a pistol, firing point-blank at his foe. Drew felt his cocked hat lifted from his head, his scalp feeling as if seared by a red-hot iron. At the same instant his sword passed through the commander’s body, and the feud between them was settled forever. The ship was carried, and was manned by a prize crew, but was lost in a terrific storm which shortly after swept the Southern coast.
The cruise of the De Brock extended as far as the West Indies, many a sick Jamaica trader falling into the hand of the patriots. After a long series of successes Drew returned to Lewes, recruited and sailed again.
To recount all the incidents attending the career of the De Brock and her commander would no doubt prove of absorbing interest, but the records have been lost, and little remains to be related concerning him save the manner in which the valorous seaman lost his life.
He had become enamored with one of Lewes’ fair maidens, and she, looking into the depths of her lover’s eyes, had secured from him a solemn promise to give up the life he was leading upon the completion of his next voyage. Shortly after the De Brock sailed upon what was indeed her final cruise.
In the course of time two large English ships were captured, loaded with valuable cargoes, and carrying an immense amount of gold specie. A gale of wind had separated them from the convoy, and, when overtaken by the De Brock, were tacking off shore to discover, if possible, some signs of their scattered fleet. The treasure had been transferred to the afterhold of the American cruiser, while rich bundles and packages of merchandise were also stowed in a place of safety. The value of the prize was estimated at not far from £1,000,000, sufficient to make all connected with the De Brock more than comfortable for life.
Satisfied with the unprecedented success that had befallen him, Drew shaped his course for Lewes, driving the De Brock over the turbulent surges of the Atlantic as she had never been forced before. As the capes of Delaware were sighted, the elated commander allowed the sailing-master to assume charge, while he, naturally exultant over the wonderful success of his efforts, and in consideration that he was about to take final leave of his officers and crew, deemed the occasion one demanding from him an expression of his appreciation of their valor and faithfulness. He forthwith ordered his steward and servants to prepare the table in the cabin, and a luxurious entertainment was prepared. The shores of his native land were close aboard, the rugged outlines of his birthplace were before him. The cheering tides of prosperity swept him onward to a safe haven, and almost in imagination he felt the soft lips, warm caresses, and waving locks of his beloved awaiting his arrival on the pebbly beach.
The decanters had been circulating rapidly, when, amid the revels, the piercing strains of the boatswain’s whistle and his mates were heard summoning all hands to shorten sail. The flapping of canvas and thrashing of blocks, with loud words of command, were heard above the boisterous mirth and incessant clinking of glasses, which, in a measure, had kept from the ears of revelers the whistling of the rising gale through the taut rigging. The sea had suddenly sprang up, causing the De Brock to pitch and roll in a very erratic and uncomfortable manner.
Capt. Drew, flushed with wine, his brain clouded by the fumes of the choicest vintage of France, appeared on deck, and, in an unsteady voice, chided the cool, experienced, steady-going old sailing-master for reducing sail and placing single reefs in the topsails. He was in no mood to have the speed of the good ship checked, with the spires and cottages of Lewes in sight from the quarterdeck. Besides, were not the eyes of his sweetheart upon him, as well as those of his neighbors and friends? He would show them what their townsman, the favorite of fortune, could do, and what the De Brock was capable of performing. Trumpet in hand, he thundered forth order after order, resulting in all sail being made again, until the topgallant sails were bulging and straining at sheets and braces as the wind swept fiercely o’er the darkening sea. Hauling by the wind, in order to head up for the harbor, the full force of the sharp, whistling tempest was felt upon the straining, tugging canvas of the wildly careening ship, and from many a bronzed and furrowed cheek came glances of astonishment and apprehension, as seamen, who had gathered experience in every clime, looked anxiously aloft, to windward, and on the quarterdeck, where stood Drew in full Continental uniform. But such was the discipline on the De Brock that not a murmur reached the ears of the master spirit. He had charge of the ship now, which no one on board would have the hardihood to interfere with, knowing full well the impetuous and intolerant spirit of the commander when his mettle was up. No one who valued his life would have hazarded the shadow of a suggestion.
Unyielding and stubborn, Drew stood to windward, while a heavier squall than usual whitened the crests of the swelling surges. A crash, a shriek, a flashing of snowy canvas against the sullen, gloomy background, and as the gallant vessel plunged into a seething sea, rolling heavily to leeward, the hungry waves leaped above the submerged rail, a black torrent of roaring water choked the open hatchways, and the De Brock, like a flash of light, a cloud of feathery vapor, disappeared from the horrified gaze of the interested spectators, who with glasses had been watching the movements and wondering at the extraordinary press of canvas being carried upon the vessel.
The De Brock turned bottom up but a short distance from Cape Henlopen, carrying with her gold and jewels, rich bales of rare merchandise and folds of delicate, fragile lace, representing immense values. A few of the ship’s company succeeded in reaching floating remnants of wreckage and were rescued by their townspeople, who hastened to the rescue with beating hearts and sorrowful minds. Among the survivors was the gray-haired sailing-master, who lived to tell to his descendants and friends the many exciting incidents connected with the French-built craft that Drew had gained and commanded with consummate skill and gallantry.
The lifeless body of Capt. Drew, his jaunty uniform and gold epaulets entwined with seaweed, but scarcely marred by rock or sand shore, was found cast up on the beach, cold and rigid in death, his handsome features proud and exultant even in death, his curly brown hair streaming over the high collar of uniform coat, and his dark eyes wide open, staring fixedly at the lowering heavens.
On the extreme point of Henlopen, after a heavy gale has been raging and a fierce sea rolling in and thundering along the beach, fragments and debris of wreckage have often been cast up by the action of the waves, and it is current rumor in that vicinity that more than one individual who now ranks as a leading and influential man owes success and prominence to James Drew’s misfortune and the treasure washed out by the sea from amid the sodden timbers of the ill-fated De Brock. The wreck of that vessel is but one instance in a long list of similar disasters.
At the close of the Revolution, a brig laden with specie was wrecked in close proximity to the cape, and was followed soon after by a huge Spanish treasure ship, her hold well ballasted with pieces of eight and stamped bars of the precious metal. Another Spanish bark laden with the choicest treasures from the land of the Incas came to grief on the treacherous shoals one dark and stormy night, but three escaping to tell the tale of horror.
Among the exploits of our sailors there is one which for daring is almost unparalleled in the history of naval warfare. It was a desperate undertaking, and had the enterprise failed those who undertook it would probably have been laughed at as foolhardy, but its success justified the daring of the little band of heroes and brought not only fame, but reward to all concerned.
The story of the Barbary pirates and their former control of the Mediterranean is too well known to need repeating. Such was once the power of the petty states which bordered the southern shore of the Mediterranean that they levied blackmail on every maritime nation of the world. No ship entered or left the Mediterranean without paying tribute to the Moors. The Deys of Algiers, of Tunis, of Tripoli, became immensely wealthy through the contributions they levied on Christian vessels and the tributes paid by Christian States for immunity from piracy. The United States was one of the nations which officially helped to fill the coffers of these barbarian chieftains, but even the tribute which was paid did not secure immunity, and in the early years of this century it was perceived that something must be done by the government to protect United States commerce in that quarter of the world. Then came the war with the Algerian States, a conflict entirely on the sea, for the distance, of course, was too great for an army to be sent from this country, and the war practically amounted to a blockade of the ports and the capture of such corsairs as attempted to enter or leave.
In the autumn of 1803, the Philadelphia, a frigate of thirty-six guns, in those days a man-of-war of the first class, was blockading the harbor of Tripoli. A storm came on, the ship was driven to sea, and on returning after the wind had lulled noticed a brigantine endeavoring to steal into the port. The Philadelphia gave chase and pursued the corsair close into the shore and within three miles of the guns of the forts. Capt. Bainbridge, of the Philadelphia, expressed his uneasiness at running so close to the shore, but the sailing-master professed an intimate acquaintance with the neighborhood, having been there before, and the pursuit was continued. Bainbridge did not know that he was among reefs, but without a moment’s notice the ship grounded with such violence that many of the men were thrown down on the deck. As soon as the corsairs perceived that the ship was fast they sallied out from Tripoli to attack the vessel, and during the day of October 31 the fight was kept up while ineffectual efforts were being made to get off the ship by cutting away the foremast and throwing overboard all the forward guns, but toward evening Bainbridge, recognizing the inevitable, and fearing lest when night came on the ship might be boarded and all on board massacred by the pirates, he scuttled the ship and surrendered the vessel.
The pirates swarmed on board, ordered the prisoners, 315 in number, including twenty-one officers, into their boats and took them to shore. Day, the American poet, who was one of the crew, thus describes an experience as the captive of the Moors: “When we approached the shore, we were thrown headlong into the waves, foaming from a high breeze, where the water was up to our arm-pits, and left to strangle, or get ashore as we could. At the beach stood a row of armed janizaries, through which we passed, amidst cursings and spittings, to the castle gate. It opened and we ascended a narrow, winding, dismal passage, which led into a paved avenue lined with grizzly guards, armed with sabres, muskets, pistols, and hatchets. Here we halted again a few moments, and were again hurried on through various turnings and flights of stairs, until we found ourselves in the presence of his majesty, the puissant Bashaw of Tripoli.
“The throne on which he was seated was raised about 4 feet from the surface, inlaid with mosaic, covered with a cushion of the richest velvet, fringed with gold, bespangled with brilliants. The floor of the hall was of variegated marble, spread with carpets of the most beautiful kind. The person of the Grand Bashaw made a very tawdry appearance. His clothing was a long robe of blue silk, embroidered with gold. His broad belt, ornamented with diamonds, held two gold-mounted pistols and a sabre with a golden scabbard, hilt and chains. On his head he wore a large white turban, decorated in the richest manner. His whole vestments were superb in the extreme. His dark beard swept his breast. I should suppose him to be about 40, is rather corpulent, 5 feet 10 inches in height, and of a manly, majestic deportment.
“When he had satisfied his pride and curiosity, the guard conducted us into a dreary and filthy apartment of the castle, where there was scarcely room for us to turn round and where we were kept for nearly two hours, shivering in our wet clothes and with the chills of a very damp night. The Neapolitan slaves, of whom the Bashaw had more than 150, brought us dry clothing to exchange for our wet, and we sincerely thanked them for their apparent kindness, expecting to receive ours again when dry; but the trickish scoundrels never returned our clothes nor made us any restitution. Our clothing was new, and what they brought us in exchange was old and ragged.”
Two days after the ship had grounded the Moors got her off, recovered most of her guns and brought her into the harbor of Tripoli, where she formed a substantial addition to the Bashaw’s fleet. While in captivity Bainbridge found means to communicate through the Danish Consul in Tripoli with the Americans, and wrote a letter to Capt. Edward Preble, of the Constitution, then in the Mediterranean, describing the position of the Philadelphia in the harbor and suggesting that an expedition be sent to destroy her. Stephen Decatur was then a young Lieutenant, in command of the sloop Enterprise. A few days after the letter from Bainbridge was received he had captured, south of Sicily, a ketch named the Mastico, filled with female negro slaves, and brought his prize into Syracuse, where the slaves were liberated and the property on board was sold for the benefit of the crew. As soon as Decatur heard of Bainbridge’s suggestion he was eager to undertake the task in his own ship, the Enterprise. But his proposal was rejected by Preble, who believed the Mastico better suited for the task, and ordered that she be employed. “Volunteers for an unusually dangerous service” were called for, and sixty-two responded, the number being subsequently increased to sixty-nine, and among them, besides Decatur himself, then a mere boy of 24, were two other boys destined to play an important part in naval affairs. One was James Lawrence, a midshipman of 16 years, the other Thomas McDonough, of 20.