In the Episcopal churchyard connected with the quaint village of
Lewes, Del., stands a monument, stained and weather-beaten, bearing
an inscription all but worn away by the action of time and force of
the elements. It was erected in memory of James Drew, a valorous
though reckless young American seaman who fought bravely during the
Revolution. His career and services deserve a more extended and
prominent place in history than the few obscure lines traced on the
crumbling marble which marks the neglected resting-place of the brave
but unfortunate patriot.
James Drew was an early applicant for a naval position, but, owing to
a scarcity of ships, failed to obtain from Congress the commission and
active service he longed for. He bore the English no love, and when
serving as second mate, sailing out of Philadelphia, had been taken
out of the vessel while in a West India port to serve on an English
man-of-war. Drew was a tall, powerful stripling, whose breadth of chest
and shoulders and bright, intelligent face formed a physique not to be
passed lightly by. He was seized under the pretense of being an English
deserter and quickly transferred to the deck of an English frigate. For
two years he found no opportunity of escaping from his persecutors,
and in that time had acquired a perfect mastery of naval drill and
discipline which afterwards proved of inestimable value to the young
commander. The battle of Bunker Hill had been fought when young Drew
severed his connection with the Royal Navy in the following manner:
He had won the favor and good opinion of all the officers of the Medusa
frigate, then lying at Halifax, save one, the Lieutenant who had been
the means of impressing the young American. He had not forgotten or
forgiven the bitter invectives indulged in by Drew when struggling for
liberty on the deck of the molasses drogher, and to the end remained
his uncompromising enemy. The officer in question had advanced in rank
until he filled the position of second in command, while Drew held a
warrant as gunner. On some trumped-up wrong the First Lieutenant, in
the absence of his superior, summoned the object of his hatred to the
quarterdeck, where, in presence of the ship’s company, he disgraced and
struck the American. Drew incurred the penalty of death by knocking his
persecutor down, and before a hand could be outstretched to prevent him
he had leaped overboard and was swimming for the shore. The marines
fired promptly upon the escaping fugitive, while four boats were piped
away with orders to bring the deserter back, dead or alive. The shadows
of a dark and stormy night soon enveloped the retreating form of Drew,
who, diving beneath the surface, doubled on his pursuers, swam toward
the frigate, coming up under the heavy counter, gaining a footing on
the rudder. A passing wood schooner afforded him the opportunity of
making an attempt for liberty and evading the fate which stared him
in the face. He concealed himself on board until clear of the harbor,
boarded another vessel that was bound down the coast, succeeding after
many perils and hardships in once more regaining his native land. At
Philadelphia his reputation as a seaman and navigator was well known,
while Robert Morris, the great financier of the Revolution and friend
of Washington, took the young man in charge. Through the influence of
his powerful protector he could have had a Lieutenant’s commission in
the Continental navy, but this was changed for a plan which suited
young Drew’s temperament much better.
Provided with letters from Morris to a number of celebrated personages
in France, Drew crossed the ocean authorized to negotiate for a large
loan of gold and war material, and succeeded by dint of persuasion
and the influence of Morris’ name in obtaining command of a French
armed ship called the De Brock. No time was lost in preparing for
sea, the only drawback to Drew’s satisfaction being the fact that
his crew consisted entirely of Frenchmen. With the gold intended for
the cause of liberty stowed in the run, with ammunition and small
arms placed below hatches, Drew sailed for America, carrying in the
cabin a number of French officers seeking service under Washington,
and who had authority over the treasure, relative to its handling and
disposition. The nature of the vessel, destination, and character of
cargo had been kept secret as possible, enabling him to gain the sea
without detention, and the course was shaped for Synopuxette Bay, near
where now stands Ocean City, Md. The point was reached in safety and
the contents of the De Brock’s hold were soon landed. Wagons, under
the escort of soldiers, accompanied by the French passengers, conveyed
both treasure and war material to Wilmington. The arms and ammunition
were at once forwarded to army headquarters, while the gold, for some
mysterious reason, was deposited in the cellar of a large mansion
occupied by French officers serving with the Americans. There it
remained all winter, so states the records, though why Robert Morris
did not assume possession of the specie, which was so much needed, is
not so plain.
In the spring the officers were compelled to shift their quarters, when
it was discovered that the gold which had been so jealously guarded had
been by some mysterious process abstracted from the original packages.
The flaming torches held on high by the Frenchmen revealed naught but
walls and arches of solid masonry, with windows barred and massive
doors bolted and locked. No indications of violence could be found. No
developments concerning the strange affair were ever unearthed, and the
mystery involved with the disappearance of the gold remains a dark and
forgotten episode of the Revolution.
The De Brock, meanwhile, had not been idle. Once rid of her cargo,
Capt. Drew found a way of creating vacancies among the crew, until,
with a freshening breeze, he passed the capes, his ship manned wholly
by hardy and experienced fishermen, well drilled and anxious to meet
the enemy. Early on the morning of the third day a sail was sighted in
the southern offing, close hauled and standing for the De Brock. In a
short time the character of the stranger was revealed, as she displayed
the ensign and pennant of Old England, and on the part of the De
Brock, a banner bearing the device of a rattlesnake, with thirteen
rattles, coiled at the foot of a tree, in the act of striking. Both
vessels had cleared for action, and no time was lost in coming to close
quarters. Running before the wind, yardarm and yardarm within half
pistol-shot distance, broadsides were exchanged in rapid succession.
The gunnery on both sides was none of the best, which fact rendered
Drew impatient, who, watching a favorable opportunity, when both
vessels were enshrouded in smoke, motioned to his sailing-master, and
with a crash the two vessels swung together.
“Follow me, men!” shouted the impetuous Drew, leaping on the
quarterdeck of his adversary, cutlass in hand, to find himself
immediately confronted by the English commander. A mutual shout of
astonishment and fierce exultation from each revealed the fact that
the leaders were no strangers to each other. The Lieutenant of a press
gang of a few years back had won the epaulets of a commander, while
his would-be victim confronted him, the leader of a powerful and
well-disciplined force. As their swords crossed no heed was bestowed
upon the conflict raging about them. All of their energies were
concentrated upon one object, to have each other’s life-blood.
The British commander, forced backward a step as Drew pressed him
fiercely, stumbled over a ringbolt and fell at his opponent’s feet.
“Resume your sword,” said Drew, contemptuously; “I prefer to kill you
with your weapon in your hand.”
“Look to yourself, rebel and deserter. Your life is forfeited, and no
mercy shall you receive from my hand.”
“Wait until I ask it,” was the reply, and the duel was resumed. The
Englishman’s sword snapped at the hilt; but, leaping nimbly aside, he
drew a pistol, firing point-blank at his foe. Drew felt his cocked hat
lifted from his head, his scalp feeling as if seared by a red-hot iron.
At the same instant his sword passed through the commander’s body, and
the feud between them was settled forever. The ship was carried, and
was manned by a prize crew, but was lost in a terrific storm which
shortly after swept the Southern coast.
The cruise of the De Brock extended as far as the West Indies, many a
sick Jamaica trader falling into the hand of the patriots. After a long
series of successes Drew returned to Lewes, recruited and sailed again.
To recount all the incidents attending the career of the De Brock and
her commander would no doubt prove of absorbing interest, but the
records have been lost, and little remains to be related concerning him
save the manner in which the valorous seaman lost his life.
He had become enamored with one of Lewes’ fair maidens, and she,
looking into the depths of her lover’s eyes, had secured from him a
solemn promise to give up the life he was leading upon the completion
of his next voyage. Shortly after the De Brock sailed upon what was
indeed her final cruise.
In the course of time two large English ships were captured, loaded
with valuable cargoes, and carrying an immense amount of gold specie.
A gale of wind had separated them from the convoy, and, when overtaken
by the De Brock, were tacking off shore to discover, if possible, some
signs of their scattered fleet. The treasure had been transferred to
the afterhold of the American cruiser, while rich bundles and packages
of merchandise were also stowed in a place of safety. The value of the
prize was estimated at not far from £1,000,000, sufficient to make all
connected with the De Brock more than comfortable for life.
Satisfied with the unprecedented success that had befallen him, Drew
shaped his course for Lewes, driving the De Brock over the turbulent
surges of the Atlantic as she had never been forced before. As the
capes of Delaware were sighted, the elated commander allowed the
sailing-master to assume charge, while he, naturally exultant over the
wonderful success of his efforts, and in consideration that he was
about to take final leave of his officers and crew, deemed the occasion
one demanding from him an expression of his appreciation of their
valor and faithfulness. He forthwith ordered his steward and servants
to prepare the table in the cabin, and a luxurious entertainment was
prepared. The shores of his native land were close aboard, the rugged
outlines of his birthplace were before him. The cheering tides of
prosperity swept him onward to a safe haven, and almost in imagination
he felt the soft lips, warm caresses, and waving locks of his beloved
awaiting his arrival on the pebbly beach.
The decanters had been circulating rapidly, when, amid the revels,
the piercing strains of the boatswain’s whistle and his mates were
heard summoning all hands to shorten sail. The flapping of canvas and
thrashing of blocks, with loud words of command, were heard above
the boisterous mirth and incessant clinking of glasses, which, in a
measure, had kept from the ears of revelers the whistling of the rising
gale through the taut rigging. The sea had suddenly sprang up, causing
the De Brock to pitch and roll in a very erratic and uncomfortable
manner.
Capt. Drew, flushed with wine, his brain clouded by the fumes of the
choicest vintage of France, appeared on deck, and, in an unsteady
voice, chided the cool, experienced, steady-going old sailing-master
for reducing sail and placing single reefs in the topsails. He was in
no mood to have the speed of the good ship checked, with the spires
and cottages of Lewes in sight from the quarterdeck. Besides, were not
the eyes of his sweetheart upon him, as well as those of his neighbors
and friends? He would show them what their townsman, the favorite of
fortune, could do, and what the De Brock was capable of performing.
Trumpet in hand, he thundered forth order after order, resulting in
all sail being made again, until the topgallant sails were bulging
and straining at sheets and braces as the wind swept fiercely o’er
the darkening sea. Hauling by the wind, in order to head up for the
harbor, the full force of the sharp, whistling tempest was felt upon
the straining, tugging canvas of the wildly careening ship, and from
many a bronzed and furrowed cheek came glances of astonishment and
apprehension, as seamen, who had gathered experience in every clime,
looked anxiously aloft, to windward, and on the quarterdeck, where
stood Drew in full Continental uniform. But such was the discipline on
the De Brock that not a murmur reached the ears of the master spirit.
He had charge of the ship now, which no one on board would have the
hardihood to interfere with, knowing full well the impetuous and
intolerant spirit of the commander when his mettle was up. No one who
valued his life would have hazarded the shadow of a suggestion.
Unyielding and stubborn, Drew stood to windward, while a heavier
squall than usual whitened the crests of the swelling surges. A crash,
a shriek, a flashing of snowy canvas against the sullen, gloomy
background, and as the gallant vessel plunged into a seething sea,
rolling heavily to leeward, the hungry waves leaped above the submerged
rail, a black torrent of roaring water choked the open hatchways,
and the De Brock, like a flash of light, a cloud of feathery vapor,
disappeared from the horrified gaze of the interested spectators, who
with glasses had been watching the movements and wondering at the
extraordinary press of canvas being carried upon the vessel.
The De Brock turned bottom up but a short distance from Cape Henlopen,
carrying with her gold and jewels, rich bales of rare merchandise and
folds of delicate, fragile lace, representing immense values. A few of
the ship’s company succeeded in reaching floating remnants of wreckage
and were rescued by their townspeople, who hastened to the rescue
with beating hearts and sorrowful minds. Among the survivors was the
gray-haired sailing-master, who lived to tell to his descendants and
friends the many exciting incidents connected with the French-built
craft that Drew had gained and commanded with consummate skill and
gallantry.
The lifeless body of Capt. Drew, his jaunty uniform and gold epaulets
entwined with seaweed, but scarcely marred by rock or sand shore, was
found cast up on the beach, cold and rigid in death, his handsome
features proud and exultant even in death, his curly brown hair
streaming over the high collar of uniform coat, and his dark eyes wide
open, staring fixedly at the lowering heavens.
On the extreme point of Henlopen, after a heavy gale has been raging
and a fierce sea rolling in and thundering along the beach, fragments
and debris of wreckage have often been cast up by the action of the
waves, and it is current rumor in that vicinity that more than one
individual who now ranks as a leading and influential man owes success
and prominence to James Drew’s misfortune and the treasure washed out
by the sea from amid the sodden timbers of the ill-fated De Brock. The
wreck of that vessel is but one instance in a long list of similar
disasters.
At the close of the Revolution, a brig laden with specie was wrecked
in close proximity to the cape, and was followed soon after by a huge
Spanish treasure ship, her hold well ballasted with pieces of eight and
stamped bars of the precious metal. Another Spanish bark laden with
the choicest treasures from the land of the Incas came to grief on the
treacherous shoals one dark and stormy night, but three escaping to
tell the tale of horror.
BURNING OF THE FRIGATE PHILADELPHIA IN THE HARBOR OF TRIPOLI BY STEPHEN
DECATUR.
Among the exploits of our sailors there is one which for daring is
almost unparalleled in the history of naval warfare. It was a desperate
undertaking, and had the enterprise failed those who undertook it would
probably have been laughed at as foolhardy, but its success justified
the daring of the little band of heroes and brought not only fame, but
reward to all concerned.
The story of the Barbary pirates and their former control of the
Mediterranean is too well known to need repeating. Such was once the
power of the petty states which bordered the southern shore of the
Mediterranean that they levied blackmail on every maritime nation of
the world. No ship entered or left the Mediterranean without paying
tribute to the Moors. The Deys of Algiers, of Tunis, of Tripoli, became
immensely wealthy through the contributions they levied on Christian
vessels and the tributes paid by Christian States for immunity from
piracy. The United States was one of the nations which officially
helped to fill the coffers of these barbarian chieftains, but even the
tribute which was paid did not secure immunity, and in the early years
of this century it was perceived that something must be done by the
government to protect United States commerce in that quarter of the
world. Then came the war with the Algerian States, a conflict entirely
on the sea, for the distance, of course, was too great for an army
to be sent from this country, and the war practically amounted to a
blockade of the ports and the capture of such corsairs as attempted to
enter or leave.
In the autumn of 1803, the Philadelphia, a frigate of thirty-six guns,
in those days a man-of-war of the first class, was blockading the
harbor of Tripoli. A storm came on, the ship was driven to sea, and on
returning after the wind had lulled noticed a brigantine endeavoring
to steal into the port. The Philadelphia gave chase and pursued the
corsair close into the shore and within three miles of the guns of the
forts. Capt. Bainbridge, of the Philadelphia, expressed his uneasiness
at running so close to the shore, but the sailing-master professed
an intimate acquaintance with the neighborhood, having been there
before, and the pursuit was continued. Bainbridge did not know that
he was among reefs, but without a moment’s notice the ship grounded
with such violence that many of the men were thrown down on the deck.
As soon as the corsairs perceived that the ship was fast they sallied
out from Tripoli to attack the vessel, and during the day of October
31 the fight was kept up while ineffectual efforts were being made to
get off the ship by cutting away the foremast and throwing overboard
all the forward guns, but toward evening Bainbridge, recognizing the
inevitable, and fearing lest when night came on the ship might be
boarded and all on board massacred by the pirates, he scuttled the
ship and surrendered the vessel.
The pirates swarmed on board, ordered the prisoners, 315 in number,
including twenty-one officers, into their boats and took them to shore.
Day, the American poet, who was one of the crew, thus describes an
experience as the captive of the Moors: “When we approached the shore,
we were thrown headlong into the waves, foaming from a high breeze,
where the water was up to our arm-pits, and left to strangle, or get
ashore as we could. At the beach stood a row of armed janizaries,
through which we passed, amidst cursings and spittings, to the castle
gate. It opened and we ascended a narrow, winding, dismal passage,
which led into a paved avenue lined with grizzly guards, armed with
sabres, muskets, pistols, and hatchets. Here we halted again a few
moments, and were again hurried on through various turnings and flights
of stairs, until we found ourselves in the presence of his majesty, the
puissant Bashaw of Tripoli.
“The throne on which he was seated was raised about 4 feet from the
surface, inlaid with mosaic, covered with a cushion of the richest
velvet, fringed with gold, bespangled with brilliants. The floor of
the hall was of variegated marble, spread with carpets of the most
beautiful kind. The person of the Grand Bashaw made a very tawdry
appearance. His clothing was a long robe of blue silk, embroidered with
gold. His broad belt, ornamented with diamonds, held two gold-mounted
pistols and a sabre with a golden scabbard, hilt and chains. On his
head he wore a large white turban, decorated in the richest manner. His
whole vestments were superb in the extreme. His dark beard swept his
breast. I should suppose him to be about 40, is rather corpulent, 5
feet 10 inches in height, and of a manly, majestic deportment.
“When he had satisfied his pride and curiosity, the guard conducted
us into a dreary and filthy apartment of the castle, where there was
scarcely room for us to turn round and where we were kept for nearly
two hours, shivering in our wet clothes and with the chills of a very
damp night. The Neapolitan slaves, of whom the Bashaw had more than
150, brought us dry clothing to exchange for our wet, and we sincerely
thanked them for their apparent kindness, expecting to receive ours
again when dry; but the trickish scoundrels never returned our clothes
nor made us any restitution. Our clothing was new, and what they
brought us in exchange was old and ragged.”
Two days after the ship had grounded the Moors got her off, recovered
most of her guns and brought her into the harbor of Tripoli, where she
formed a substantial addition to the Bashaw’s fleet. While in captivity
Bainbridge found means to communicate through the Danish Consul in
Tripoli with the Americans, and wrote a letter to Capt. Edward Preble,
of the Constitution, then in the Mediterranean, describing the position
of the Philadelphia in the harbor and suggesting that an expedition
be sent to destroy her. Stephen Decatur was then a young Lieutenant,
in command of the sloop Enterprise. A few days after the letter from
Bainbridge was received he had captured, south of Sicily, a ketch named
the Mastico, filled with female negro slaves, and brought his prize
into Syracuse, where the slaves were liberated and the property on
board was sold for the benefit of the crew. As soon as Decatur heard
of Bainbridge’s suggestion he was eager to undertake the task in his
own ship, the Enterprise. But his proposal was rejected by Preble, who
believed the Mastico better suited for the task, and ordered that she
be employed. “Volunteers for an unusually dangerous service” were
called for, and sixty-two responded, the number being subsequently
increased to sixty-nine, and among them, besides Decatur himself, then
a mere boy of 24, were two other boys destined to play an important
part in naval affairs. One was James Lawrence, a midshipman of 16
years, the other Thomas McDonough, of 20.
[Illustration: THE CLERMONT--FULTON’S FIRST STEAMBOAT--1807.]
[Illustration: FIGHT WITH ALGERINE PIRATES.]
A large quantity of combustibles was prepared and placed in the ketch,
and with his daring crew Decatur left Syracuse for Tripoli in company
with the brig Siren, which was to wait off the harbor and pick up the
Americans in case they should be compelled to take to the small boats.
On February 9, 1804, the expedition sailed from Syracuse and arrived
off Tripoli by night, but a furious gale from the shore precluded the
possibility of making the attack, and for six days the voyagers were
tossed to and fro on the waves of the Mediterranean, their little
vessel being almost swamped by the heavy seas.
On the morning of February 16 the sun rose fair and clear, the
combustibles were examined and found to be dry and in good order, and
sail was made for the harbor, the ketch and brig proceeding slowly in
order not to arrive before night. As the darkness came on the brig
paused in the offing, while under a brisk breeze the ketch sailed into
the harbor. An hour later the wind lulled and the ketch slowly drifted
toward the Philadelphia, which was plainly visible from its great bulk,
the lighted portholes indicating that the crew was still awake. As the
ketch approached it was guided so as to foul the Philadelphia at the
bowsprit, and the Maltese pilot who had been taken on board at Syracuse
principally because he could speak Arabic called to the officer on
the Philadelphia and requested permission to make fast to the ship’s
ropes, for the ketch had lost all her anchors in the storm. Permission
was given, and a line was cast, which was caught by the three or four
men who appeared on the little boat. The remainder, stripped to the
waist for battle, and with cutlasses and pistols ready to hand, lay
stowed away behind the bulwarks and invisible to the corsairs.
The Tripolitan officer in command asked the pilot what ship was in
the offing, for the Siren had been seen, and the Maltese replied
that it was an English brig waiting for daylight to cross the bar
and enter the harbor. Not the least suspicion was roused in the
minds of the corsairs, although the rope which made fast the ketch
to the Philadelphia was even then being handled by the men concealed
beneath the bulwarks of the little slaver. As, however, a line must be
fastened from the stern to the larger vessel before boarding could be
effected, it was quite possible that the men would be discovered as
soon as the ketch was brought alongside. The pilot, however, kept the
Moors entertained with narratives of the cargo the ketch contained,
manufacturing very clever stories of the beautiful slaves and immense
wealth on board. A moment later the stern line was made fast and the
ketch brought alongside, when the Moors discovered the figures beneath
the bulwarks and raised the cry of alarm, “Americanos! Americanos!”
Decatur had divided his men into five crews--one to remain on board
and guard the ketch, the other four were first to storm the upper deck
of the Philadelphia, then three parties were to go below and fire
the ship, while the fourth held the deck against possible Moorish
re-enforcements. The moment the ketch was brought alongside Decatur
gave the word, “Boarders, away!” and the American boys swarmed through
the portholes and up over the bulwarks of the Philadelphia. So sudden
and furious was the onslaught that the Moors were taken by surprise,
and as the Americans rushed forward, cutlass in hand, fled before them,
jumping into the water to escape the terrible enemy. Of the Moorish
crew of nearly 300 on board, twenty were killed outright, how many were
drowned could not be ascertained, but a number, afraid to leap from the
ship, hid below to perish a few minutes later like rats in their holes.
In five minutes from the time of boarding the deck was cleared of the
pirate crew, the work being done solely with the cutlass; not a shot
was fired from beginning to end. The parties appointed to do the firing
at once began the work of hauling the combustibles aboard and passing
them to the lower decks, cabin and hold. Fire was set to the ship in
a dozen different places and the flames spread with such rapidity
that some of the Americans had a narrow escape, and one was severely
scorched by being compelled to pass up through a burning hatchway. The
work was well done, and, as the flames appeared through the portholes,
a rocket was sent up from the ketch to notify the brig outside that the
enterprise had been successful.
Their work finished, the Americans hastily let themselves down into
the ketch, and not a moment too soon, for so rapidly did the flames
spread that there was danger of their little boat taking fire. The
Philadelphia was a mass of glowing flames before the ketch could be
disengaged, and such was the draught of air toward the burning ship
that for some moments it seemed uncertain whether the ketch could be
gotten away. The stern and sails did actually take fire, but a few
buckets of water extinguished the blaze, and the men set to work with a
will at the oars, of which there were four on each side.
The capture of the ship had been effected without apparently the least
suspicion on shore of what was going on. The Philadelphia lay directly
under the guns of the largest fort and not quite 400 yards away. Long
before the swimmers from the ship could reach the shore the blaze
warned the garrisons of the forts that something was wrong. Small
boats were immediately dispatched, some of the swimmers picked up, and
thus the truth became known. As the ketch was in plain view, a heavy
fire was at once commenced and from a hundred guns on each side of the
harbor belched forth flame and iron in vengeance for the daring act.
But whether from haste or inefficiency, the aim of the gunners was bad,
and although shell and shot plowed up the water all around the ketch
she was struck but once, and then only by a ball going through the sail.
More to be dreaded than the artillery fire was the swarm of boats
crammed with corsairs that put forth from the shore in pursuit. Decatur
said afterwards that the little crew of the ketch must have been chased
by a hundred craft of all sizes, containing probably a couple of
thousand men, but the pirates reasoned very correctly that Americans
who could attempt so desperate an act as the burning of a ship almost
within stone’s throw of the forts were not to be trifled with in a
hand-to-hand engagement, so kept at a respectful distance and contented
themselves with a running fire of musketry. The Americans replied,
those not at the oars maintaining a lively fusillade, while another
rocket was sent up as a signal to the brig for aid. It was responded to
by a rocket in the offing, the Siren’s boats, full of well-armed men,
put off to the rescue, and as soon as they came within firing distance
the Tripolitans withdrew.
Thus was achieved what Lord Nelson called the most daring act of
the age. Not an American was killed, only one was wounded, he very
slightly, and a third was, as already stated, severely scorched.
Every participant in this hazardous adventure received his reward.
Decatur, although only a boy, was made Captain; Lawrence and McDonough
received substantial promotion; and every seaman was voted two months’
extra pay. The exploit had serious consequences for the crew of the
Philadelphia, for the Dey of Tripoli fell into a furious passion at the
loss of the ship and at once consigned the Americans to the filthiest
dungeons in his castle, where they remained until liberated at the
close of the war. The act of Decatur’s expedition had an important
influence in bringing the war to an early conclusion, for, as the
Danish Consul expressed it in an interview with the Dey, “If the
Americans can burn your ships lying under the guns of the fort, they
may undertake to burn your palace over your head,” and the Dey seems to
have taken the same view of it. He did not have long to reflect upon
the matter, however, for in less than six months Preble’s squadron
arrived off Tripoli with better pilots than those of the Philadelphia,
sailed through the intricate channels, entered the harbor, bombarded
the forts and town, and the Dey was glad to conclude a treaty of
peace, releasing all the American prisoners and promising not to
demand nor exact tribute from American vessels. Decatur’s later career
fully justified the reputation he won in his earliest exploit, but
none of his subsequent deeds of bravery exceeded the burning of the
Philadelphia.
McDUGALL’S PLUCKY FIGHT IN SIMONOSEKI STRAITS.
Another of the almost unrecorded chapters in the annals of the American
Navy was the heroic action between the U. S. ship Wyoming, Commander
McDugall, and three Japanese cruisers supported by six shore batteries,
during the Civil War.
The Wyoming had her part in all the hardest of blockading and cruising
service and fought well whenever she had a chance. She was sent at the
same time as her sister ship, the Kearsarge, to cruise for that scourge
of the seas, the Alabama, and just missed her by the merest chance on
two occasions in the China Seas. From there the Alabama squared away
for the Atlantic again and went to meet her fate under the heights
of Cherbourg, while the Wyoming sailed to her hardest fight with the
forces of the Tycoon.
It was in 1863, toward the end of the dual reign of the Tycoon and the
Mikado. Japan was in the throes of civil war, and the foes of the rebel
princes were resisting to the last the passing of the old feudal system.
The Prince of Nagato was one of these, and from his tiny kingdom
that fronted on the Straits of Simonoseki he declared himself lord
of all he surveyed, including the neighboring seas, from which he
took as generous toll as did ever the pirate chiefs of Tariffa. He
had laid violent hands upon the vessels of various powers, including
Great Britain, France, the Netherlands, and the United States.
Representatives of these powers had protested, but the protests had
been of little moment. The Japanese central government had disavowed
the acts of the pirate prince, but confessed its inability to deal with
him while more formidable matters engaged its attention.
Meanwhile Prince Nagato throve and flourished, and one day fired on
the American merchantman Pembroke, having failed to wring tribute or
blackmail by any other means, and killed two of her crew. Another
diplomatic protest from the combined foreign representatives followed,
but Commander McDugall, who was in port with the Wyoming, suggested
that if the Mikado could not subdue his rebellious subject the Wyoming
could and would without much urging. Accordingly, McDugall was given
carte blanche to settle accounts with the Prince of Nagato in behalf of
all the powers concerned.
It was the middle of July when the Wyoming found herself in the Straits
of Simonoseki and in sight of the shore batteries, which were a part of
the prince’s defenses to seaward. Before she had time to open on the
batteries two Japanese gunboats loomed up, one ahead and one astern, in
the narrow straits, and presently a third came cruising out from among
the neighboring islands. It was a nasty place for a fight, McDugall
being without charts or pilots, and the odds were more than enough for
Nelson himself, being forty-eight guns of the three Japanese vessels to
the twenty-six of the old Wyoming, to say nothing of the batteries on
shore.
Working to windward of the nearest Japanese ship, the Wyoming opened
at long range, and worked down on her till when close aboard there was
nothing of the enemy left standing above decks. The other two vessels
had come up in the meantime and engaged the American on either side,
but she lay to and gave them shot for shot, port and starboard, till
her gunners were smoke-blind and the flame of the guns no longer served
to light the battle-cloud that rolled in white billows over the smooth
waters of the straits. It was desperate work in the shallow water, but
the Wyoming was the best vessel and she outmanœuvered her two opponents
from the start, though twice aground and once afire, with as many men
disabled from splinters and heat as from the enemy’s shot.
Fighting themselves out of one smoke-patch into another, the three
combatants circled around till they had drifted down in range of the
shore batteries, which opened upon the Wyoming. But McDugall ran across
the bows of one of his enemies, raked her as he went and left her a
floating wreck, and then turned his attention to the batteries. The
Wyoming’s men rigged the smith’s forge on deck and tossed hot shot into
the works ashore till they set them afire, and the soldiers fled, and
the crew of the remaining cruiser followed their example.
McDugall mended his rigging and patched his bulwarks, sent word to the
recalcitrant prince to arrange for indemnity, which he did. The share
of the United States was $300,000.
In this action McDugall’s loss was five men killed and six wounded.
CAPTAIN McGIFFEN AT THE BATTLE OF THE YALU.
On September 17, 1894, the Chinese ironclad Chen-Yuen with her sister
ship, the flagship Ting-Yuen, and nine smaller war vessels, met the
Japanese off the mouth of the Yalu River.
The Chen-Yuen was protected by 12 and 14-inch armor, and carried four
12.2-inch, two 6-inch, and twelve machine guns. Her commander was
Captain McGiffen of the United States Navy.
Here the famous battle of the Yalu, the first great trial of modern
ironclads, was fought. Owing to the cowardice of several Chinese
commanders, who ran away at the first exchange of shots, eight Chinese
ships did all the fighting against the twelve ships of the enemy. The
battle was altogether a contest of Orientals, except that one man
of European blood, trained in the naval school of a great Western
power, commanded the Chen-Yuen--Philo Norton McGiffin, of the
United States Navy. His fighting that day was the dramatic climax of
a brave and spotless life that had been a nineteenth-century revival
of knight-errantry. The lives of none of the free-lances and fearless
adventurers from Hawkesworth to Gordon were more romantic than that of
McGiffin.
[Illustration: CRUISER FOLLOWING TORPEDO INTO ACTION.]
The reduction by Congress of the U. S. naval force sent adrift
Lieutenant McGiffin, a graduate of Annapolis in the class of ’82. As
China was engaged in war in Asia, McGiffin straightway tendered his
services to the Chinese Government. The result was eventually that
China took one French gunboat in a war otherwise entirely disastrous to
her. In 1887 McGiffin became the head of the Chinese Naval Academy at
Wei-Hai-Wei. This was the reason for his command of one of China’s two
most formidable warships in the battle which decided the outcome of the
Chino-Japanese war.
The crews of the Chinese fleet had gone through their morning drill and
dinner was nearly ready when smoke from the Japanese ships was sighted
by the lookout. The appearance of Japan’s fleet had been expected for
a week, but nevertheless the blood in every man’s veins throbbed quick
as the call to action sounded throughout the fleet. The Chen-Yuen
had already been stripped for action. The decks were cleared for the
passage of ammunition and for the free movement of the crew and in
order to secure unobstructed arcs of fire for the guns. The small boats
had been abandoned, the ladders overboard or wrapped in wet canvas.
These measures were taken to avoid the danger from fire and flying
splinters, both of which are as much to be feared in a sea-fight as the
enemy’s shot. The gun-shields, by order of Captain McGiffin, had been
removed from the big guns as affording no protection from heavy shot
and as serving to intercept and cause to explode shells that would
otherwise pass over the heads of the gunners. The ship’s firehose had
been connected and let out and bags of sand and coal placed on deck to
form breastwork against small shot. Ammunition for immediate use was
piled beside the guns. The suggestive hospital appliances, bandages,
and cots and chairs rigged for lowering the wounded to the sick bay,
were in position. Buckets of sand were placed about the decks and
inside the superstructure; for when men are torn to pieces the flow of
blood makes the deck slippery.
In less than an hour after the Japanese ships dotted the horizon the
battle had begun. The Chinese sailors were brave and eager for the
fight. They were prepared neither to give nor take quarter and expected
either to win or go down with their ship.
McGiffin stood motionless on the bridge listening to the reports of
the range announced by the sub-lieutenant in the foretop as the fleets
rapidly neared each other. The ordeal before him and his men was more
terrible than soldiers had been called upon to face in regular battle
since the beginning of human wars. That McGiffin fully realized the
situation was shown by a letter written to his brother upon starting to
meet the Japanese ships. “You know,” he said, “it is four killed to one
wounded since the new ammunition came in. It is better so. I don’t want
to be wounded. I prefer to step down or up and out of this world.” Not
extraordinary words, but splendidly expressive of a soldier-like way of
facing fate.
The closing lines of this letter were sadly prophetic. McGiffin wrote:
“I hate to think of being dreadfully mangled and then patched up, with
half my limbs and senses gone.”
He came home in exactly the condition he had described. and, true to
his determination, chose to step up and out of it all.
There was no sound but the panting of the ship under forced draught.
The men, grouped quietly at their stations, did not venture to speak
even in whispers. “Fifty-two hundred metres,” the range was called.
Then the great yellow flag of China was raised to the main truck, the
quick-firing guns opened fire, and the fight began.
The battle lasted for nearly five hours, with the two Chinese
battleships as its centre.
It was estimated that McGiffin’s ship was hit 400 times and 120 times
by large shot or shell. The rain of projectiles visited every exposed
point of the vessel. Early in the fight a shell exploded in the
fighting top, instantly killing every one of its inmates. Indeed, all
such contrivances proved to be deathtraps. Five shells burst inside the
shields of the bow six-inch gun, completely gutting the place. Though
the carnage was frightful, the Chinese sailors, with their commander
to encourage them, stuck to their posts. A chief gunner was aiming his
gun when a shell took off his head. The man behind him caught the body,
passed it back to his companions, calmly finished the sighting of the
piece and fired it.
The Chen-Yuen gave as hard knocks as she received, and until her
ammunition ran low her fire was rapid and more effective than that
of her adversaries. One of the last shells, fired under McGiffin’s
personal direction from a twelve-inch gun, disabled the thirteen-inch
gun on the enemy’s flagship, the Matsushima, and exploded the powder on
deck, killing or wounding more than 100 Japanese officers and men. Then
McGiffin’s Chinamen cheered joyfully.
Throughout the whole fight McGiffin was the dominating spirit of his
ship. He was at once her brains and her inspiration.
Even cowardice itself was moved by his fearless example. At the opening
of the fight he discovered a lieutenant and a dozen terrified men
hidden below one of the engine turrets. McGiffin thrashed the officer
and sent them all on deck, where they afterward fought like heroes.
The five hours’ strain on the commander was terrific, for there was
no subordinate who could relieve him, and his presence was required
everywhere. Whilst the fight was hottest a fire broke out in the
superstructure above the forecastle. It became necessary to run out
a hose in the range of the starboard guns, which had been ordered to
fire to port across the forecastle. The men refused to do this until
McGiffin called for volunteers and offered to lead them. Word was
sent to the head-gunner at the starboard battery to train his pieces
ahead, and McGiffin and his volunteers started with the hose for the
forecastle. Half of the men were shot down by the enemy. As the captain
stooped over to grasp the hose a shot passed between his legs, burning
his wrists and severing the tail of his coat. A fragment of a shell
that had burst against the tower wounded him a second time.
Meanwhile men at the forcastle gun were falling rapidly and the
head-gunner was killed. The man who took his place, not knowing that
his comrades were in front of his guns, discharged one of them. The
explosion knocked the captain and his men down and killed several
outright. At the same instant another shot struck McGiffin.
He would probably have remained there unconscious if water from a gash
in the hose had not revived him. His first glance on coming to his
senses was into the muzzle of the starboard gun. It was slowly moving
into position for firing. “What an ass I am to sit here and be blown to
pieces,” thought McGiffin. So he flung himself from the superstructure
and fell eight feet to the deck below. With blood pouring from his
mouth he crawled into the superstructure and told the men to carry him
aft. In a few minutes he was fighting his ship again.
McGiffin stood very near a large gun when it exploded. He was almost
blinded. His hair and eyebrows were burned off and his clothes torn and
set on fire. There was a series of gashes in his trousers extending
their entire length. Throughout the fight his ears were stuffed with
cotton, as were those of all the gunners, but after the day’s fighting
his ear-drums were found to be permanently injured by concussion.
Several times he was wounded by splinters, which he extracted himself.
With forty wounds in his body, holding an eyelid up with one hand,
this man of iron nerve led the fighting on his ship until the Japanese
vessels gave up the contest and he alone of all the Chinese commanders
kept his ship in its proper position throughout the fight, thus
protecting the flagship and saving the fleet from total destruction.
When the Japanese admiral withdrew, McGiffin navigated his ship to
its dock. His mind never lost its effectiveness, though his body was
shattered beyond repair. In fact, his body was described as being so
covered with bruises that it resembled a checker-board.
In this action a new style of sea-fighting was inaugurated and an
American sailor, a young man 34 years of age, set its standard for
daring and fortitude under fire of the modern guns.
After his great battle Captain McGiffin, a mental and physical wreck,
came to America to die. He met death as a brave man should, with but
one regret: He wished that he might have had one chance to fight for
his own country, with a Yankee crew at his back and a Yankee ship under
him.