All were eager to visit the historical places immediately upon their
arrival. As they entered the harbor of Castine Mrs. Travilla remarked
that it was quite as picturesque as she expected from Lossing's
description.
"Ah, I entirely agree with you, Cousin Elsie," responded Mr. Lilburn;
"it is so bonny a place that I do not wonder it was coveted by the
enemy."
The whole party presently landed, a guide was found who promised to
conduct them to all the points of historical interest, and they set out
upon their search. They very much admired the situation of the town,
and the view from it of the bay, with its picturesque islands. They
visited old Fort George, built by the British in 1779, in the centre of
the peninsula, and repaired, fraised, and armed by them in 1814. It was
only a ruin now, but interesting because of what it had been in those
earlier days. The view from its banks, which were about eighteen feet
high from the bottom of the six feet deep ditch, was very interesting.
Looking northwestward from the fort they could see on the right the
entrance to the canal cut by the British across Castine Neck, turning
the peninsula into an island. It was about eighty rods long and twelve
feet deep, and now had a bridge across it. Between the promontory
and an island could be seen the mouth of the Penobscot River. On
the extreme left they could see the town of Belfast, thirteen miles
distant. Leaving that point they visited the remains of several other
forts built by the British, after which they returned to the yacht for
the evening meal and the night's rest.
The _Dolphin_ was allowed to remain stationary until all her passengers
were on deck again the next morning; then the anchor was lifted, and
she steamed up the river. Favored with delightful weather they greatly
enjoyed the trip up the beautiful, winding stream. They had taken on
board a man well acquainted with the river and every point of interest
upon its banks, and who pointed out each one as they neared it. As they
entered Marsh Bay the young people were told that the British squadron
lay there one night on their way toward Hampden. Elsie and Ned showed
keen interest when told of it, and in hearing from their father of the
cannon-ball of the British that lodged in a storehouse there in 1814.
"Do you remember the story Lossing tells about a Norway pine somewhere
in this region?" asked Mrs. Travilla, addressing Captain Raymond.
"Something of it," he said, with an amused smile, and the children at
once begged to hear it.
"Will you gratify them, mother?" asked the captain. "You probably have
a better recollection of his story than I."
"I will do my best," she said, and began at once. "Lossing says the
tree was about a mile above here, and the only one of its kind in that
region--a round, compact tree, its short trunk looking as if composed
of a group of smaller ones, and the limbs growing so near the ground
that it was difficult to get under it. At the time that the British
landed at Frankford some man who had a large quantity of bacon, being
afraid they would rob him of it, carried it to that tree and hung the
pieces in among the branches to hide them from the foe; and though the
British passed along the road only a short distance from the tree, they
did not notice its peculiar fruit, so did not meddle with it, and his
bacon was saved; always afterward that Norway pine was called the Bacon
Tree."
"Thank you, grandma; that was a nice story," said Elsie.
"Haven't you another little story for us, grandma?" asked Ned, in
coaxing tones. "I do always like your stories ever so much."
At that Grandma Elsie laughed a pleasant little laugh, then went on:
"Lossing tells us quite an interesting little story of a remarkable
black man whom he visited somewhere near here. His name was Henry Van
Meter, and he was then ninety-five years old. During the Revolution
he was a slave to Governor Nelson of Virginia. After that he became
a seaman, and was one of the crew of the privateer _Lawrence_, which
sailed from Baltimore in 1814. I suppose Lossing questioned him about
his long life, and heard his story of it. He remembered having seen
Washington many times. The estate of Governor Nelson, his first master,
was sold after the war, to pay his debts, and Henry was bought by a
planter beyond the Blue Ridge. The new master wanted him to marry one
of his slave girls, and told him if he did he would order in his will
that he should be made a free man at his (the master's) death. In
telling of it Henry said, 'I didn't like the gals, and didn't want to
wait for dead men's shoes. So master sold me to a man near Lexington,
Kentucky, and there was only one log house in that town when I went
there.'
"He was soon sold to another man, who treated him shamefully, and one
night he mounted one of his master's horses and fled to the Kentucky
River, where he turned the horse loose, and told him to go home if he
had a mind to, as he didn't want to steal him. Some kind white people
helped Henry over the river into Ohio, and at Cincinnati he then took
the name of Van Meter--the family name of some of the Shenandoah Valley
people who had been kind to him.
"Afterward Henry became the servant of an officer in the army of
General St. Clair, and served with our troops in the Northwest under
General Wayne. After that he lived in Chillicothe, then came East to
Philadelphia. There some Quaker sent him to school, and he learned to
read and write. He became a sailor, went to Europe several times in
that capacity, and when the war broke out he shipped as such on board
the privateer _Lawrence_. It was taken by the British, and he was
thrown into Dartmoor Prison, and saw the massacre there in 1815."
"Oh, what was that, grandma?" asked Ned, in tones of excitement. "I
didn't think I ever heard about it."
"Lossing tells us," replied his grandmother, "that Dartmoor was a depot
for prisoners in England; that it was situated in a desolate region,
was built in 1809 for a place in which to confine French prisoners. At
the time the treaty of peace was made with us there were six thousand
American prisoners in it--two thousand five hundred of them American
seamen, put there for refusing to fight in the British Navy against
their countrymen. They were there when the war began in 1812. For
some unknown reason there was great delay in setting those prisoners
free after the treaty of peace was made. It was nearly three months
before they were allowed to know that the treaty had been signed. From
the time they first heard of it they were every day expecting to be
set at liberty, and naturally grew very impatient over the delay. On
the 4th of April they demanded bread instead of hard biscuit, which
they refused to eat. On the evening of the 6th they showed great
unwillingness to obey the order to retire to their quarters, and some
of them not only refused to do that, but went beyond their prescribed
limits. Then Captain Shortland, who had charge of the military guard,
ordered them to fire on the Americans, which they did. The soldiers,
I believe, fired a second time. Five prisoners were killed and
thirty-three wounded."
"Why, that was just murder, wasn't it, grandma?" asked Ned. "And didn't
they hang those soldiers for doing it?"
"No; the British authorities called it 'justifiable homicide,' which
meant it was all right enough."
"In which decision I, for one, am far from agreeing," remarked Mr.
Lilburn emphatically.
"It created intense indignation in this country at the time," said the
captain; "but is now seldom remembered, and the two nations are, and I
hope always will be, good friends."
The _Dolphin_ ascended the river only as far as Bangor, and returned
by moonlight to Castine, where they anchored for some hours; then at
an early hour in the morning they steamed out into the ocean again,
and pursued a westward course until they reached Portland. There they
landed and paid a visit to the cemetery where lay the remains of the
brave captains of the _Enterprise_ and the _Boxer_; also those of
Midshipman Kervin Waters.
"They are buried side by side, as if they were brothers, instead of
enemies who were killed fighting each other," said little Elsie softly.
"But perhaps they were good Christian men, each fighting for what he
thought was the right of his own country. Papa, can you tell us about
the funeral? I suppose they had one?"
"Yes, daughter, a solemn and imposing one. The two battered vessels
were lying at the end of Union Wharf. A civil and military procession
had been formed at the court-house at nine in the morning of the 9th
of September. The coffins were brought from the vessels in barges of
ten oars each, rowed by minute strokes of ship-masters and mates, most
of the barges and boats in the harbor accompanying them. When the
barges began to move, and while the procession was passing through the
streets to the church, minute guns were fired by artillery companies.
Also while the procession marched from the church to the cemetery here,
which is about a mile distant from the church.
"The chief mourners who followed the corpse of Captain Burrows were Dr.
Washington, Captain Hull, and officers of the _Enterprise_. Those who
followed Captain Blyth's were the officers of the _Boxer_, on parole.
Both were followed by naval and military officers in the United States
service, the crews of the two vessels, civil officers of the State and
city, military companies, and a large concourse of citizens. Only a few
weeks before Captain Blyth was one of the pall-bearers at the funeral
of our Lawrence, the gallant commander of the _Chesapeake_, at Halifax."
"That dear brave man that said, 'Don't give up the ship,' papa?" asked
Elsie.
"Yes, daughter. Now let us read the inscription on his tombstone:
'In memory of Captain Samuel Blyth, late Commander of his Britannic
Majesty's brig _Boxer_. He nobly fell on the 5th day of September,
1813, in action with the United States brig _Enterprise_. In life
honorable; in death glorious. His country will long deplore one of
her bravest sons, his friends long lament one of the best of men. Æ.
29. The surviving officers of his crew offer this feeble tribute of
admiration and respect.'"
"It sounds as though they had respected and loved him," said the little
girl. "That next grave is where Burrows lies, isn't it, papa? and won't
you please read its inscription?"
They drew nearer and the captain read aloud: "'Beneath this stone
moulders the body of William Burrows, late commander of the United
States brig _Enterprise_, who was mortally wounded on the 5th of
September, 1813, in an action which contributed to increase the fame
of American valor, by capturing his Britannic Majesty's brig _Boxer_,
after a severe contest of forty-five minutes. Æ. 28. A passing stranger
has erected this memento of respect to the manes of a patriot, who, in
the hour of peril, obeyed the loud summons of an injured country, and
who gallantly met, fought, and conquered the foeman.'"
"And that one on the pillars, papa--whose is it?" Elsie asked, as her
father paused with a slight sigh.
"That is the tomb of Midshipman Waters," he said. "We will go nearer
and read its inscription: 'Beneath this marble, by the side of his
gallant commander, rest the remains of Lieutenant Kervin Waters, a
native of Georgetown, District of Columbia, who received a mortal
wound, September 5, 1813, while a midshipman on board the United States
brig _Enterprise_, in an action with his Britannic Majesty's brig
_Boxer_, which terminated in the capture of the latter. He languished
in severe pain, which he endured with fortitude, until September 25,
1813, when he died with Christian calmness and resignation, aged
eighteen. The young men of Portland erect this stone as a testimony of
their respect for his valor and virtues.'"
"Twenty days to suffer so," sighed Elsie. "Oh, it was dreadful!"
Max and Evelyn stood near, side by side.
"Dreadful indeed!" Evelyn sighed, in low quivering tones as they turned
away. "Oh, Max! I wish you did not belong to the navy!"
"Why, dearest?" he asked in tender tones. "It is not only in the navy
that men die suddenly and of injuries; and many a naval officer has
lived to old age and died at home in his bed. And we are under the same
Protecting Care on the sea as on the land."
"Yes, that is a cheering thought," she said, "and since you love
the sea, it is wrong and selfish in me to regret your choice of a
profession. And I could not be induced to resign my sailor lover for
any landsman," she added, with a charming blush and smile.
That evening, joining her father, as she so often did, in his quiet
promenade of the deck before retiring for the night, Lucilla spoke of
their visit to the cemetery, and said, "I have always been so glad that
you left the navy, papa, so that we could have you always at home with
us, and I am gladder still when I think that if we should have another
war you will not be in danger of such a fate as that which befell
Burrows and Blyth."
"Unless I am needed, volunteer my services, and am accepted," he
returned, in a slightly playful tone.
"Oh, papa, don't, please don't!" she exclaimed, clinging more closely
to him. "It will be dreadful enough to have Max in such danger, but to
have you, too, in it would be heart-breaking."
"Well, dear child, we won't be so foolish as to trouble ourselves about
what may never happen. And if it ever should happen, we must just put
our trust in the Lord, believing that he doeth all things well, and
trusting his promise, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And you
can rejoice in the fact that Chester is neither sailor nor soldier," he
added, with a smile, and softly patting the hand resting upon his arm.
"Yes, father dear, that is no small comfort," she said; "especially as
I know he is patriotic enough to do all in his power for his country."
"Ah, no doubt of that! I think Chester would be as ready as any one
else to take up arms in her defence if he saw that his services were
needed. And I don't believe this daughter of mine would say a word to
prevent him."
"I think not, papa; but I hope I may never be tried in that way."
"A hope in which I heartily join you, daughter. I should be glad indeed
to know that we were done with wars. But that is so uncertain that we,
as a nation, must be ever prepared to repel attack--on land or sea.
'Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.'"
"And liberty is worth that price, isn't it, father?" she said, with a
bright smile up into his face.
"Yes; so we think; we could never be content without it."
They paced silently back and forth for a few moments, then Lucilla
asked, "How long are we going to lie quietly here in Portland harbor,
papa?"
"That will depend upon the wishes of the majority of our company," he
answered; "which I think we will learn at the breakfast table to-morrow
morning."