I should have become food for fishes long before we reached the longitude of the Western Islands.
One afternoon, before we left the Gulf Stream, a thunder squall arose from the south-east. It came towards us rapidly, as if borne on the wings of the Genius of Storms. Its whole aspect was "wicked" in the extreme, and every man on board knew that prudence required sail to be taken in and preparations made for the reception of the tornado. The captain was on deck, but the boatswain unfortunately remarked, "That squall looks like an ugly customer, sir, and it will soon be necessary to shorten sail."
This remark, made in the most respectful manner, roused the captain's ire. He chose to consider it an unauthorized and impertinent interference on the part of the petty officer; the squall, as well as the boatswain, was denounced in language not often heard in a drawing room, and both were consigned to a hotter place than the craters of Mauna Loa.
The clouds spread over the zenith, the thunder rattled as if it would rend the welkin, the wind began to blow in short-lived puffs, as if making preparations for a regular "blowout;" the men were stationed at the halliards, fore and aft, waiting with intense anxiety the result, and the captain was pacing the quarter-deck, looking as savage as a hungry bull-dog, and determined to show that he was not to be frightened by squibs, but would carry sail in spite of the squall.
At that time we were under courses, topsails, top-gallant-sails, and a main-royal; our fore-royal mast was snugly stowed alongside the long-boat on deck, where, at that tempestuous season, the main one should also have been. The order at length was given, "Clew up the main-royal! Let a hand go aloft and furl it."
The sail was clewed up, and in a few seconds I was clinging to the sliding gunter royal mast, and gathering in the canvas, while the captain was denouncing me for a lubber, for not accomplishing impossibilities. The lightning was flashing around ne, and the peals of thunder were deafening; the rain was beginning to fall, and the wind to blow with alarming violence, before I could spill the sail and pass the gaskets. Suddenly I heard a tumultuous noise as of the roar of angry breakers. I cast my eye to windward, and beheld the whole surface of the sea covered with a sheet of snow-white foam. At the same moment I heard the voice of the captain, who was now really alarmed, in a tone which could be heard above the roar of the hurricane, shouting, with frantic energy, "Hard up your helm! Hard up, I say. Let go all the halliards, fore and aft! Haul up the mainsail! Lower away that try-sail! Clew down the top-gallant sails! Why don't you put the helm hard up?"
I was sensible of the danger of my situation, standing on "the hounds" of the top-gallant mast, and almost within reach of the truck, while the brig, with all sail set, was exposed to the fury of this terrible thunder gust. Obeying an irresistible impulse to take care of "number one," I slid down the topmast cross-trees, caught hold of the weather top-gallant backstay, and came on deck much faster than I went aloft! My feet had hardly touched the deck when a gust struck the brig with a fury which I have seldom seen surpassed. It rushed upon us like an avalanche on a hamlet in an Alpine valley. Halliards, sheets, and tacks were let go, but the yards were still braced up, and the sails could not be clewed down. Before the vessel could get before the wind her lee side was buried in the water. The conviction seized every mind that a capsize was inevitable, and there was a general rush towards the weather gunwale, and a desperate clutching at the shrouds. At this critical moment the main-topmast snapped off like a pipe stem, just above the cap, and carried with it the fore-top-gallant mast. The brig righted, fell off before the wind, scudded like a duck, dragging the broken spars, and her sails torn to ribbons; and a cold shudder crept over me when I thought of the appalling danger from which by sliding down the backstay, I had so narrowly escaped.
When we struck soundings off the English Channel, the word was given to the boatswain to bend the cables and get the anchors over the bows. The wind was blowing hard from the northward, with violent squalls and a short head sea, and Captain Mott showed no disposition to reduce the canvas in order to lighten our labors, but carried sail and drove the vessel as if he was running from a pirate. The brig frequently plunged her knight-heads under water, deluging every man on the forecastle with sheets of salt water. In the mean time the captain, and also the mate, dry-shod on the quarter-deck, grinned, and winked at each other, at witnessing our involuntary ablutions, with the mercury at the freezing point, while subjected to this severe course of hydropathic treatment, and doing work which, under ordinary circumstances, could have been accomplished in a few hours.
Reefing a topsail in a gale is an evolution simple in itself; and when the sail is placed by the skill of the officer of the deck in a proper condition, the work aloft can be accomplished in five minutes, even by a bungling crew. But Captain Mott seemed to take pleasure in placing obstacles in the way of the ready performance of any important duty, and held the crew accountable for any extraordinary delay. Thus in reefing topsails, the men were sometimes half an hour on the yard, endeavoring in vain to do a work which his own obstinacy or ignorance rendered impracticable, and he, all the while, cursing and swearing at the crew for their inefficiency, in a style which would have done credit to the leader of a press-gang.
The men, generally, were good seamen, and able and willing to do their work, and with proper treatment would have proved first rate sailors; but it is an old and true saying that bad officers make a bad crew. When a man's best efforts are rewarded with abuse, it is unreasonable to expect that he will perform his various duties with alacrity and cheerfulness. It was customary, at that period, for rum to be served out to the crew, and the minimum allowance, in nearly all American vessels, was a glass of rum at dinner, with an extra glass during exposure to inclement weather, or when engaged in unusually fatiguing labors. This extra glass was generally served out by the steward at the companion-way, and the men were summoned to partake of this indulgence by a call to "splice the main brace."
Captain Mott, however, refused to furnish the crew of the Casket with the usual daily allowance of grog. This refusal, there was reason to believe, was caused, not by a commendable wish to promote temperance, and break up habits of intoxication, but from a desire to gratify a surly and unamiable disposition, and deprive the men of an enjoyment which they highly prized. With such a captain and mate, and regulations of the most arbitrary and stringent character, it may be imagined that the grumbling at hard treatment, and the muttered curses against the inmates of the cabin, were neither few, nor far between.
But the captain, while he refused the DAILY allowance of grog, did not deem it advisable to withhold the usual allowance on Saturday night, when every true sailor loved to meet his shipmates around a flowing bowl, and pass a happy hour in lively conversation, singing sea songs, spinning yarns, and drinking with heartfelt emotion the toast of all others the dearest and best "Sweethearts and Wives."
No one can imagine the tender, thrilling, and holy associations which cluster round those words, "Sweethearts and Wives," unless he has been long separated from those he loves, a wanderer on a distant sea. That Saturday night toast came home to the bosom of every man who carried a heart beneath a blue jacket. The gallantry of the sailor has often been spoken of. His devotion to woman is proverbial. With few opportunities to mingle in female society, he can, nevertheless, truly estimate its value, and appreciate its advantages. Indeed, I have known old sailors, whose rough and wrinkled visages, blunt and repulsive manners, coarse and unrefined language, were enough to banish gentle Cupid to an iceberg, exhibit the kindest and tenderest feelings when speaking of WOMAN, whom in the abstract they regarded as a being not merely to be protected, cherished, and loved, but also to be adored.
I shall never forget the well-deserved rebuke I once received from a sturdy old tar for an ill-timed comment on a woman's personal appearance. It was in St. Salvador. The captain of a Portuguese ship was going on shore accompanied by his wife. The boat crossed the bows of the ship I was in; the feminine garments attracted the attention of all hands, who suspended their work and gazed upon the charming object as if they beheld something more than mortal. As the boat passed onward, and we resumed labors which the glimpse of a petticoat had interrupted, with a want of gallantry which I trust is foreign to my character, for which I cannot even now account, and of which I was afterwards heartily ashamed, I casually remarked, "Well, there's nothing wonderful about her, after all; she's HOMELY enough, in all conscience!"
"Hawser," said my old shipmate, in a solemn and impressive manner, gracefully waving the marlinspike which he held in his hand, "THERE IS NO SUCH THING IN NATER AS A HOMELY WOMAN!"
"Saturday Night" in olden times was not only devoted to reminiscences of home and affectionate associations, but was also the time selected for indulgence in the songs of the forecastle. After the usual toast, "Sweethearts and Wives," had been drunk with enthusiasm, some one of the crew was called on for a song, and the call was responded to without affected reluctance; and the beams, carlines, and bulkheads of the old forecastle rang again with stirring songs or ballads poured forth from manly and musical throats, in praise of beauty, descriptive of life at sea, recording deeds of heroism, or inculcating lessons of patriotism.
To these songs of the forecastle, sung on the land as well as on the ocean, in beauty's bower as well as in the sailor's sanctuary or the stifled cabin, in days when accompaniments to vocal music were not considered necessary, when the full melodious sound of the human voice, THE NOBLEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD, was not strangled, drowned, or travestied by the noise of the everlasting piano, played with artistic skill to these spirit-stirring songs of the forecastle was commerce indebted for many of the finest and best sailors ever sprinkled with salt water.
The well known songs of "the Bay of Biscay," "Black Eyed Susan," and "Cease, Rude Boreas," once listened to with emotion and delight at the cottage fireside, or the fashionable drawing room, and the many songs long since forgotten of a similar character, written by salt water poets, and sung by mariners at home and abroad, have transformed enthusiastic and adventurous landsmen into sailors by scores, as by the touch of an enchanter's wand. Dibdin did more to man the "wooden walls of old England" with brave and effective men than all the press-gangs that ever infested the banks of the Thames.
There was one man on board the Casket who, more than all others, aided to keep the crew cheerful and happy. He was the life and soul of the forecastle. Not all the oppressive and unfeeling acts of the captain, and rough and unjust treatment from the mate, which would naturally excite indignation and a discontented spirit, such as sometimes will lead to insubordination on the part of the crew, followed by the free use of handspikes, rope's ends, and manacles, on the part of the officers, could repress the spirits of Jonas Silvernail, spoil his jokes, or lessen the volume of his hearty and sonorous laugh. Jonas was a native of Hudson, in New York; a young, active, intelligent sailor, who, always good-humored, was never more happy than when singing a sea song, spinning a merry yarn, or playing off a practical joke. Jonas was one of those jovial mortals who seemed determined to make sure of present enjoyment, and let the future take care of itself; to bask in the sunshine of life, while others despondingly wilt in the shade.
Good humor is contagious; and it was owing to the cheerful, contented spirit, infused among the crew of the Casket by Silvernail's example, that they forbore from insolent remonstrances, and wisely resolved to bear the ills they had, rather,
Such a man in the forecastle of a ship and in my seafaring days such men were not rare is a treasure. He lightens the labors of a crew, adds to the harmony and happiness of all on board, shortens a passage, and, as a natural consequence, promotes the interests of the owner.
On one occasion, however, Silvernail's fondness for fun threatened to disturb the harmony which was wont to reign in the forecastle. Among the crew was a big, clumsy Dutchman, through whose thick cranium no joke could penetrate, and whose feet were of proportions as huge as his head, each resembling, in size and shape, a Brazilian catamaran. The men conversing one day of the dangers of the seas, and the best means of preserving life in cases of shipwreck, or when accidentally falling overboard, Hans, who cherished a strong attachment to his own dear person, expressed a regret that he had no cork jacket, by whose aid he could float above the waves.
"Be under no concern on that account," remarked Jonas. "If you were in the water, a cork jacket would be of no more use to you than a pair of curling tongs to Cuffy, the black cook. But don't try to swim. TREAD WATER lustily with those mud scows (pointing to his feet) and you will never go to the bottom."
"You just let my foot alone," said Hans, his face glowing with indignation. "You are always poking fun at my foot, and I don't half like it. My foot is one very good foot, (holding it up, and swaying it backwards and forwards;) just fit to kick an impudent vagabone with and teach him better manners."
"That may be true," said Silvernail, with a provoking grin; "but if you should chance to miss the vagabone, as you call him, YOUR FOOT WOULD FLY OFF!"
This, and the loud laugh from his shipmates, with which it was attended, was more than even the phlegmatic Dutchman could bear. He made a furious pass at Jonas with his much-abused foot, which, if it had taken effect, would have demolished the joker in a twinkling. But Jonas stepped aside, caught the ponderous foot in his hand, and the next moment Hans was sprawling on his back. He arose, breathing guttural but incomprehensible denunciations against his tormentor, who escaped from his clutches by nimbly running up the ratlines to the foretop, where he could safely indulge his merriment over the wrath of the Dutchman.
I was often amused at the ingenious manner in which Jonas managed to get over a difficulty. One day when, with the wind abaft the beam, blowing a strong breeze, we were carrying a main-topmast studding sail, the boatswain very properly undertook to get up a preventer-brace on the weather main yard-arm. A rope was procured, which had already been considerably worn, and the boatswain expressed some apprehension that it was hardly strong enough for the service required. "O," said Jonas in an off-hand, decided manner, "it will hold on until it breaks; and if it was ever so strong it could do no more."
The boatswain appeared favorably struck with the unanswerable logic embraced in the remark, and made no further objection to the rope.
On this voyage I had one source of pleasure, of an elevated character, which was denied to the rest of my shipmates. This was my attachment to books. Before I left New Orleans, I purchased a variety of second-hand volumes; a miscellaneous collection, which enabled me to pass many pleasant hours on our passage to Havre, and at the same time lay in a stock of information which might prove of great value at a future day.
In books I found biographies of good men, whose example fortified my mind against the temptations to vice and immorality, which beset the sailor on every side. They furnished me with an interesting occupation in an idle hour, acted as a solace for disappointment, and a faithful friend and consoler in anxiety and trouble; inspired me with a feeling of emulation, and bade me look forward with hope. Many is the hour when, after a hard day's work, or an exciting scene of peril or suffering, by the dim light of a tallow candle, or a lamp manufactured by my own hands, while others were lamenting their hard fate, or pouring out their indignation in unavailing grumblings, I have, while poring over a book, lost all sense of unhappiness, and been transported far away to other and happier scenes; sometimes exploring with Barrow the inhospitable wastes of Africa; accompanying Christian on his journey to the Celestial City; sympathizing with the good Vicar of Wakefield in his domestic misfortunes; sharing the disquietudes of Rasselas in the "Happy Valley;" tracing, with almost breathless interest, the career of some ancient hero whom Plutarch has immortalized, or lingering over the thrilling adventures and perils of "Sindbad the Sailor."
A sailor before the mast, as well as the inmates of the cabin, has many hours on every voyage, which may be and should be, devoted to reading and study. When a resident of the forecastle, I have by my example, and by urgent appeals to the pride, the ambition, and good sense of my shipmates, induced them to cultivate a taste for reading, and awakened in their minds a thirst for information. Some of these men, by dint of hard study, and a determination, even at a late day, to shake off all profligate habits, and be something more than a common sailor, qualified themselves for a different station, and eventually became respectable shipmasters and merchants.
We lost one of our crew overboard, on this passage, in a manner somewhat singular. He was an Italian, called Antonio, and remarkable for a love of cleanliness a priceless virtue, when not carried to excess. He was continually washing his face and hands, as if to get rid of impurities communicated by the atmosphere. One Sunday afternoon, with a strong breeze on the quarter, the brig was reeling it off at the rate of eight or nine knots, and a rough and turbulent sea was helping her along. Notwithstanding the wind was three or four points abaft the beam, Captain Mott insisted on carrying main-topmast and middle staysails, and occasionally when the vessel was a little off of her course, the main-topmast staysail sheet, which was fastened to a cleat in the main deck, would give a "slat," with great violence. Antonio had just left the helm, and, according to his usual custom, proceeded to draw a bucket of water from alongside, in which to immerse his face and hands. But while he was stooping, in the very act of performing his ablutions, the brig, through the inattention of the helmsman, was run off her course nearly before the wind, the staysails were becalmed and the main-topmast staysail sheet, that is, the rope which kept the sail in its proper position, give a terrible jerk, caught the unfortunate Italian behind, lifted him from his feet, and actually tossed him over the gunwale. The thing was so sudden, he had not time to struggle, or even to scream, as he sank beneath the billows, while the brig swept onward, leaving him far astern. The cry, "A man's overboard!" was instantly raised by those who witnessed the sad event. One man sprang into the weather main shrouds in order to keep an eye on the poor fellow who became a martyr to cleanliness. The helm was put down, the brig rounded to, and sails laid aback. But attempts to rescue him were fruitless. He was not seen after he struck the water.
After having been about forty-five days at sea, we got sight one morning of "the Caskets," in the middle of the English Channel, about thirty miles west of Cape LaHogue, and on the following day entered the harbor of Havre, the seaport of Paris, situated at the mouth of the Seine.
Nothing remarkable happened during our stay in Havre, excepting an unpleasant affair in which our good-humored shipmate, Jonas Silvernail, played a principal part. The master of an English brig, an ignorant man, but excessively arrogant and presuming, one day took some of our men to task on the quay, accusing them of having taken a portion of his crew to a grog-shop, where they plied them with liquor until they were drunk, and then left them alone in their glory.
Jonas, in behalf of the crew of the Casket, stoutly but respectfully denied the correctness of the statement, so far as himself or his shipmates were concerned, and was about making an explanation, which must have been satisfactory, when he was interrupted by the excited Briton, who not only gave him the lie direct, but went so far as to define, in coarse and profane language, the particular character of the lie.
Jonas, although a model of subordination on shipboard, nevertheless possessed the spirit of a man, and would not brook abuse or insolence from any one who had no rightful authority over him. His eye sparkled, his lip quivered, and his fingers convulsively contracted, while he remarked, in a tone somewhat emphatic, "When a blackguard gives a gentleman the lie, he is, of course, prepared to defend himself!"
Acting upon this supposition he levelled a blow at the Englishman's face, which laid his cheek open to the bone, and stretched him on the wharf in double-quick time, as flat as a halibut!
Here was a pretty business! The affair looked serious for Jonas, as the Englishman swore vengeance against the Yankee ruffian, if there was any law or justice among a frog-eating people! Jonas was arrested, but by the kind agency of Mr. Beasley, the American consul, he was relieved from restraint on payment of a moderate fine. The choleric Briton was taught a valuable lesson, and in all likelihood put a curb on his tongue ever afterwards when talking to strangers, especially if the stranger happened to be a Yankee!
After having discharged our cargo of cotton, we sailed from Havre in ballast. We encountered a strong head wind in the chops of the Channel, and were beating about for several days. One night we were steering a course about north-north-west, under single-reefed topsails, courses and spanker, with the wind at west, while the fog was so thick that the jib-boom could hardly be seen from the forecastle, and supposed ourselves at least thirty miles to the southward of the Scilly Islands. Jonas and myself, who were walking the main deck, while the boatswain was leaning lazily against the quarter rail, and the captain and mate were sleeping in their berths below, were startled by a dull, moaning sound, which, ever and anon, seemed to come up from under the lee bow. The noise became more distinct. "What can it be?" said I, alarmed.
"I know it now," exclaimed Jonas. "It is the ROTE of the breakers dashing against the rocks, and we must be lively, or we shall soon be in kingdom come. Boatswain!" shouted he, "Breakers! Breakers ahead! Call up the captain!" and hastening forward he made such a noise on the forecastle as to rouse out all hands, who rushed on deck marvellously lightly clad, but prepared to encounter some mighty evil.
The captain was awakened by the word "breakers," a word which sounds ominous in a sailor's ears, and was on deck in a trice. He heard the rumbling noise, the character of which could not be mistaken. "Ready about!": he screamed. "Stations, men! Hard down the helm!"
The brig came up into the wind, the sails shivered, but owing to the head sea or some other cause, she would not come round, and soon gathered stern way. But captain Mott was a good seaman. "Brace round the head yards!" he exclaimed. "Lower away the spanker peak!"
The brig, by the action of the helm, the head sails being thrown aback, fell off rapidly on her heel, and soon gathering headway, barely cleared the dark and rugged cliffs of St. Agnes in the north, which now, as well as the powerful beacon light by which they were surmounted, broke through the dense fog.
It was a narrow escape. Fifteen minutes more would have carried us among the sunken rocks and ledges which are piled together in admirable confusion on the southwest side of the Scilly Isles, and the vessel and all hands would have been among the things which were.
The wind came round to the eastward on the following day, and we shaped our course across the Atlantic, bound for Savannah, whither we arrived, without the occurrence of any remarkable incident, about the first of May, 1817.
Having passed a couple of months in Savannah a few years before, I was aware from personal inspection of the wretchedly low character of the sailor boarding houses in that city; and I shuddered at the idea of passing the few days or weeks of my sojourn in Savannah at one of these "omnium gatherums" of intemperance and iniquity.
I gave to my shipmates such a graphic but faithful description of the sailor boarding houses in Savannah, that the boatswain of the brig, with Jonas Silvernail and William Jones, agreed to join me in trying to secure quarters of a character somewhat more respectable than the dens of iniquity frequented by sailors. We flattered ourselves there would be no difficulty in finding such a boarding house as we wished, knowing there were many mechanics at that time in Savannah, temporary residents, who were accommodated with board in well-regulated families at a reasonable rate, and we saw no reason why we should not be treated with equal favor.
Accordingly, the day after our arrival in port, having received our discharge, we carefully removed from our hands all stains of tar, rigged ourselves out in our neatest apparel, put on our most sober and demure faces, and started off on a cruise after a boarding house. We had received some desultory information from persons we had fallen in with about the wharves, which in a measure influenced our course.
We were not particularly successful in our quest. The simple fact which we could not deny, that "WE WERE SAILORS," was sufficient to bar every door against our entrance. It was in vain we represented ourselves as remarkably staid and sober sailors, possessing amiable dispositions, not given to liquor or rowdyism, and in search of quiet quarters in a respectable family.
To all this the one fatal objection was opposed, "WE WERE SAILORS," and of course could not reasonably expect to be received into any respectable house. No faith was given to our professions of sobriety. The term "sailor" in the minds of those good people was synonymous with "blackguard" or "drunken vagabond." It comprehended everything which was vile or wicked. After applying at more than a dozen different places, and finding the estimate of a sailor's character every where the same, and that exceptions to the general rule in this case were not allowed, we reluctantly abandoned our exploring expedition, disgusted and mortified at finding such unfounded prejudice existing against sailors, whom WE not only believed to be human beings, and entitled to rights, privileges, and indulgences as such, but a class of men which actually included many worthy, honest, well-behaved individuals, as well as those of an opposite character. We could not but doubt the policy as well as justice of a line of conduct which represses every effort on the part of seafaring men to cultivate a self-respect, and elevate themselves in the scale of society; a line of conduct which is calculated to thrust them contemptuously back, and plunge them deeper in the slough from which, perhaps, they are striving to emerge.
In those days there was no "Mariner's House" or "Sailor's Home" established in our large seaports by true philanthropists for the benefit of seamen, where this useful but too long neglected and condemned class might find a quiet, well-regulated, and respectable house, with its doors thrown open to receive them.
We returned, crestfallen and disheartened, to the brig, and passed another night in the forecastle; and the next morning, being compelled to find an asylum on shore, we inspected several of the sailor boarding houses, with a view to select the least objectionable for our temporary home. There was little room for choice. The landlords were all swaggering foreigners; their rooms were filled with a dense effluvia arising from a combination of odors, in which the fumes of tobacco and rum constituted a prominent part; and drinking grog, playing cards and dominoes, swearing, quarrelling, and fighting seemed to be the principal occupation and amusements of the main portion of the boarders.
Such were the scenes I was destined to witness in Savannah; such were the men with whom I was compelled to associate; such were the temptations to which I was subjected, and which few could pass through unscathed; such were MY "schools and schoolmasters" in early life.
After much hesitation and many misgivings, we finally established our quarters at the sign of the "General Armstrong," which was kept by John Hubbard, a tight little Irishman, a regular "broth of a boy," illiterate, not being able to write his name, with a tongue well steeped in blarney, with a conscience as elastic as a piece of India rubber, and a consummate adept in the art of wheedling a sailor out of his money.
The sign which was placed conspicuously over the door of this boarding house was a popular one, and well calculated to attract. It was not intended to represent General Armstrong of revolutionary memory, the avowed author of the treasonable "Newburg Letters," but the American privateer of that name, riding at anchor, and in the act of battling with the British boats in Fayal. Hubbard had been a petty officer in the privateer, and prided himself on the part which he took in that memorable affair, and on which he dearly loved to dwell, to the great admiration of his half-drunken auditors.
The General Armstrong privateer was a brig belonging to New York, mounting a battery of eight long nines and a twenty-four pounder amidships. The brig, a remarkably fast sailing vessel, was commanded by Samuel C. Reid, a young and gallant sailor, who displayed much courage, activity, and skill in harassing the enemies of his country on the high seas, and had been successful in capturing many valuable British ships.
While cruising off the Western Islands in the autumn of 1814, the privateer being short of water, to procure a supply put into Fayal on the morning of the 26th of September. On the afternoon of the same day three English ships-of-war arrived, anchored at the entrance of the harbor, and received from the pilots and fishermen intelligence that the far-famed American privateer General Armstrong was then in port, and lying beneath the guns of the fortifications.
Captain Reid, witnessing the arrival of these ships, did not consider himself altogether safe from attack. He knew that his vessel was particularly obnoxious to the British, who would be likely to disregard neutrality laws, spare no pains, and overcome almost any scruples in order to insure her destruction; also, that Portugal was a feeble power, which existed only by the sufferance and protection of Great Britain. Therefore Captain Reid, instead of relying on international law as a barrier against aggression, determined to rely on himself and the brave men with him; and when the British ships appeared in the offing, he commenced making vigorous preparations for defence. As soon as it was twilight he commenced warping his vessel nearer the shore. This manoeuver was seen from the decks of the English squadron, which consisted of the Plantagenet ship-of-the-line, the Rota frigate, and the Carnation gun-brig; and four boats were immediately sent off, filled with armed men, who pulled directly towards the privateer.
But Captain Reid was watching the movements of the enemy. He ordered his men to pause in their labors, and stand ready to give their visitors a warm reception. When the boats arrived within speaking distance, he hailed, but received no answer; the boats pulled on in gloomy silence. He hailed again, but there was no reply, but the men redoubled their efforts at the oars. Captain Reid, aware there was no time to be lost, hailed a third time, ordering the boats to keep off, or he would fire into them. The boats kept on. The word was given to "FIRE," and a volley of musketry was poured into the densely crowded boats, causing great confusion and killing and wounding a large number of the crews. The fire, however, was returned by the British, and the first lieutenant of the privateer was severely wounded and one man was killed. After a sharp, but severe contest, in which the enemy made desperate attempts to get alongside, the boats hauled off and returned to their respective ships.
Captain Reid knew this was only the beginning of the drama. He encouraged his men, and got in readiness for a more serious engagement. He moored his vessel close to the shore, loaded his large guns to the muzzle with grape and canister, and every musket with bullets and buckshot. His men were all on deck ready and eager to meet the foe.
The moon had risen, and lighted up the bay, so that objects could be distinctly seen at a considerable distance. And soon after midnight, twelve boats, carrying nearly four hundred men, and armed with carronades, swivels, and blunderbusses, as well as muskets, pistols, and cutlasses, left the squadron and pulled directly for the privateer. The crisis was at hand, and although the brave commander of the privateer knew that his vessel must eventually fall into the hands of his unscrupulous enemy, he determined to defend her to the last.
A fierce and desperate engagement ensued. As soon as the boats came within range, they were greeted with the contents of "long Tom;" and the nine pounders also faithfully performed their work. The guns were served with almost incredible skill and activity, and aimed with the nicest precision. The fire was returned by the boats, although it was evident that some of them suffered severely from the effects of the first broadside. Others, however, dashed alongside, with the expectation of carrying the privateer by boarding; but here, again, they were disappointed. Pistols and muskets flashed from every porthole, and boarding-pikes and cutlasses, wielded by strong hands, presented a CHEVAUX-DE-FRISE which the enemy could not overleap. The carnage was terrible; the contest lasted over half an hour, and resulted in the total defeat of the British, who, with bull-dog ferocity and obstinacy, although foiled in their desperate effort to take the privateer, were unwilling to abandon the enterprise, and were shot and hewn down by scores. Only three of the officers escaped; several of the boats were destroyed, and two of them, after the action, were found alongside the brig, literally filled with the dead and dying!
The boats which survived the conflict, crushed and discomfited, pulled slowly back to their ships, bearing with them many of the wounded. Of the four hundred who left the ships an hour and a half before, full of health, high in spirits, and eager for the battle, hardly one hundred and fifty returned unharmed.
The attack on the boats by Captain Reid and his brave men was so sudden and overwhelming, that the enemy, notwithstanding the convulsive efforts of a few, seemed incapable of making any effective resistance. Instead of being the attacking party, their efforts were mainly confined to ineffectual attempts to defend themselves. Thus, on the part of the Americans, the loss in the two engagements was only two killed and seven wounded. One of those who fell was Mr. Williams, of New York, the second lieutenant. The first and third lieutenants were among the wounded. Thus, early in the action Captain Reid was deprived of the services of his most efficient officers, but he was equal to the emergency, and his cool and intrepid conduct secured the victory.
On the following morning, soon after daybreak, the Carnation gun-brig was hauled in within point blank gun-shot, and opened a fire on the General Armstrong; but the gallant commander of the privateer, being determined to submit to no other than a superior force, returned the fire with his long twenty-four pounder so effectually, boring the brig through and through at every shot, that she was soon glad to haul off to avoid being sunk at her anchors. Preparations were now making to bring in the frigate; and aware that to prolong the contest would be worse than useless, Captain Reid ordered the brig's masts to be cut away, a hole blown through her bottom, and with all his men, trunks, chests, and baggage, took to his boats and safely reached the shore. They had not been landed fifteen minutes when the dismasted sinking vessel was boarded by the British boats without resistance, and immediately set on fire. Such was the fate of the General Armstrong privateer!
It is perhaps not strange that, before my shipmates and myself had been a week at the boarding house, around whose attractive sign clustered such patriotic associations, Downes, the boatswain of the Casket, and Jones both became acclimated to the noxious atmosphere redolent of alcohol and other disgusting compounds, succumbed to the temptations by which they were surrounded, and drank as much grog, were as noisy and unruly, and as ready for a quarrel as any dissolute old Irishman in the whole circle of Jim Hubbards' household. Indeed the boatswain, a young fellow possessed of many excellent qualities, and who had made a resolution to reform some bad habits in which he had indulged, got drunk before he had been three days an inmate of the establishment, quarrelled with an English sailor, fought with him, was severely whipped and furnished with a couple of magnificent black eyes. So true is the sentiment, beautifully expressed in the language of the poet,
The generality of Jim Hubbard's boarders were what may be technically termed "a hard set." Among them were many foreigners, who seemed to have been the off-scourings of their native countries, and whose manners and morals had not been improved by the peculiar discipline and lessons in ethics they had become familiar with on board English men-of-war or Patriot privateers. In truth they were a band of roistering blades, and by day and by night, when not dead drunk, were restless, noisy, vociferous, and terribly profane. Flush with their money, and acting from generous impulses, they would urge a stranger to drink with them in good fellowship, and if the invitation was declined, were equally ready to knock him down or kick him into the street, as unworthy the society of good fellows.
Whole crews came to the house, from long voyages, with pockets overflowing with cash. They were received with smiles of welcome by Hubbard, and the treasures of his bar were placed before them. At the proper time they were told by their obliging landlord that it was a praiseworthy custom among new comers to "treat all hands." Then commenced a course of unrestrained dissipation, which was not interrupted so long as their money held out. They became uproarious, and took a strange pleasure in enacting scenes, which should never be witnessed out of Bedlam. But as their money diminished their landlord gave them the cold shoulder; their love of frolic and fighting was sensibly lessened, and their spirits at last fell to zero on being told by their sympathizing host, who kept a careful watch over their finances, and kindly aided them in spending their money by making fictitious charges, and exacting double prices for what they actually had, that THEIR CASH WAS ALL GONE; that it was not his custom to give credit, and the sooner they found a ship, and cleared out, the better.
Such, I am sorry to say, was the character of most of the sailor landlords in "days lang syne." And notwithstanding the efforts which have since been made to elevate the condition of the sailor, and provide him with a comfortable house on shore, I greatly fear the race is not extinct; and that Jack, even in these days, often becomes the prey of one of these crafty, plausible, smiling, unprincipled scoundrels, who hands him a bottle of rum with one hand and picks his pocket with the other; who, under the guise of friendship, bears towards the sailor the same kind of affection he is prepared to expect from the man-eating shark which is seen prowling round a ship. If he falls into the clutches of either, he is sure to be taken in and done for.
But among Jim Hubbard's boarders, there were a very few of a different character from those I have described; some who kept sober, and had a due regard to the rules of propriety. These, sometimes, sought to restore order out of chaos, but soon abandoned the attempt as a bootless task, and bowed submissively to the storm whose force they could not arrest. Among these was a young man named Catlin. He was rather below than above the medium size, but had a broad chest and a muscular frame. He was evidently a thorough sailor; his countenance was open and intelligent; he was quiet and unobtrusive in his manners, and often seemed disgusted with the unruly conduct of the major part of the boarders, some of whom had been shipmates with him in a former voyage. Catlin was troubled with an impediment in his speech, and it was doubtless owing to this, as well as to his sober habits, that his voice was seldom heard amid the vocal din which shook the walls of the General Armstrong.
One morning a large ship arrived in Savannah from Boston, with a choice crew, consisting of the boatswain and ten fine-looking, athletic young men. After the ship was made fast at the wharf, and the decks cleared up, the crew received permission to go ashore; and, neatly rigged and headed by the boatswain, a splendid looking, symmetrically built native of Connecticut, who stood six feet two inches in his stockings, and wore a feather in his hat like a Highland chieftain, they paraded through several of the streets of Savannah, singing, laughing, and cheering, bent on a regular frolic. They occasionally stopped at hospitable houses, where "for a consideration" they could be accommodated with liquor to assuage thirst and enliven their already lively spirits.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening when this jovial crew came to Jim Hubbard's boarding house, entered the public room, and called for something to drink. Some of these men were disposed to be quarrelsome, and were insolent to the landlord; clearly wishing to provoke a fight; and a considerable number of the boarders instantly threw off their jackets, ready to take the part of their host. The parties being nearly equal, there was a very distinct prospect of a neat little row, or a regular pounding match.
Just as the parties were coming to blows the boatswain interposed, requesting his shipmates to keep quiet and close their clamshells; and then in an arrogant and defiant tone, stretching himself to his full height, he exclaimed, "If there is any fighting to be done here, I am the man to do it." And, with a dash of that spirit of chivalry which animated the Paladins of old, he added, "I challenge any man in the house to step into the street, and face me in a regular boxing match."
His large stature, big whiskers, insolent tone, and menacing gestures were calculated to inspire awe, and those who had shown themselves most eager to take part in the MELEE, shrank instinctively from the idea of meeting this son of Anak in single combat. But Catlin, the meek-looking, quiet, inoffensive, stuttering Catlin, who had been an attentive looker-on without evincing any disposition to take part in the proceedings no sooner heard the challenge, so vain-gloriously given, than he bounded from his seat in a corner of the room, and stood before the doughty champion.
"I ca-ca-ca-nt stand th-th-at," said Catlin, his eyes flashing with indignation. "I am your m-m-man!"
The affair became interesting. A ring was immediately formed in front of the boarding house, into which the champions of the respective parties, denuded of all unnecessary covering, and each attended by his second, entered. The crew of the ship, the boarders of the General Armstrong, and the inmates of various boarding houses in the vicinity, formed quite a numerous body of spectators. The combatants very properly dispensed with the absurd custom of shaking hands before they came to blows. After glowering at each other for a moment, they went vigorously to work. The boatswain seemed determined to demolish his puny antagonist at once by some well-directed blows, and might possibly have succeeded if the blows had taken effect. But Catlin parried or avoided them with surprising skill and agility, until the boatswain losing patience, grasped his antagonist in his sinewy arms, and after a brief struggle, Catlin was thorn heavily upon his back.
He rose from the earth, like a second Antaeus, with renewed vigor, and when the boatswain attempted to repeat the operation, Catlin dealt him a blow in the body which fairly lifted him from his feet, and, doubling him up, dropped him motionless on the ground.
By the aid of his second, the boatswain was soon again on his feet. The fight was renewed, and continued with but little cessation for fifteen or twenty minutes, during which time Catlin had been twice thrown, but had received no visible injury; and the boatswain's features had been knocked out of all shape, and he had been several times felled to the earth by the terrible blows given by his antagonist. His endurance was wonderful; he submitted to his pounding like a hero, but he was rapidly losing strength; was evidently suffering much from pain, and another round would probably have finished the fierce contest, crowned Catlin with the victor's wreath, and led to a general tumult and row, when some new actors entered on the scene and changed the order of the performances.
These actors appeared in the guise of a squad of police officers, the city patrol, who had received intelligence of the row. They broke through the ring, without regard to ceremony, and made a dash at the men who were striving so hard to maul one another. The boatswain unable to resist or flee, was easily captured, and also his second. But Catlin, having heard the cry of "the watch! the watch!" as these vigilant preservers of the public peace broke through the ring, gave his antagonist a parting blow which he long remembered, forced his way through or leaped over the dense throng which obstructed his progress, and with the speed of a race horse rushed into the house, and almost before the officers of the law were aware of his escape, he had donned his garments, and without a scratch on his person, mingled unsuspected with the throng of spectators. The boatswain, notwithstanding the woeful plight he was in, for he was dreadfully punished, was marched off to the guard house, accompanied by his faithful second, and on the following day was mulcted in an exemplary fine for disturbing the peace.
The most singular battle between two-legged brutes that I ever beheld, was fought one day between two stout negroes in the neighborhood of my boarding house in Savannah. They had cherished a grudge against each other for some time, and accidentally meeting, a war of words ensued, which attracted a crowd of spectators, who kindly used all possible efforts to induce them to break the peace, in which charitable enterprise they finally succeeded.
Much to my surprise, and greatly to the amusement of the bystanders, the darkies made no use of their fists, neither did they grasp each other by the waist, or resort to the worse than savage practice of gouging. They retreated from the spot where they had been standing, until the space between them would measure some ten or twelve paces, a good duelling distance, and then instead of throwing tomahawks or javelins at each other's heads, or discharging bullets of lead from the mouths of pistols or blunderbusses, they bowed down their heads, as if overcome with humility, and rushed at each other with inconceivable fury.
Like knights of ancient days, they met half way in the lists; but instead of shivering their spears right manfully, their heads came in contact, like a collision between two locomotives, making a noise like a clap of thunder. As they rose from the ground from which they were both thrown by the violence of the shock, fire seemed actually to flash from their eyes, and they shook their heads from shoulder to shoulder for several seconds, apparently to know if all was right within.
The result being satisfactory, they retreated a short distance, not so far as at first, and again tried the terrible experiment of seeing which head was the hardest. After giving several of these practical illustrations of the noble art of butting, in a fashion that would have cracked, crushed and demolished the thickest craniums belonging to the Caucasian family, but which seemed to produce little effect on these hard-headed sons of sires born on the banks of the Niger, one of the belligerent parties watched an opportunity when his opponent was off his guard, dexterously evaded the favor intended for him, and drove his own head with tremendous force against the bosom of his antagonist.
This of course finished the engagement, for the poor fellow was thrown backwards with violence to the ground, where he remained for some time senseless, while the grinning victor received the congratulations of his friends.