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,
"Vice is a monster of so frightful mien,
As to be hated needs but to be seen;
But seen too oft, familiar with the face,
We first endure, then pity, then embrace."
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.