The leave enjoyed by Decatur and Somers was brief, and before the summer
of 1801 was out they were forced to part. For the first time in their
young lives their paths were to diverge for a short while, and to be
reunited in the end. But their separation was for a reason honorable to
both. Decatur was appointed first lieutenant in the frigate Essex—like
most of those early ships of the American navy, destined to a splendid
career. She was commanded by Captain Bainbridge, whose fate was
afterward strangely linked with that of his young first lieutenant. The
Essex was one of a squadron of three noble frigates ordered to the
Mediterranean, under the command of Commodore Richard Dale; and this
Richard Dale had been the first lieutenant of Paul Jones, the glory of
the American navy, in the immortal fight between the Bon Homme Richard
and the Serapis. The association with such a man as Commodore Dale was
an inspiration to an enthusiast like Decatur; and as he found that Danny
Dixon was one of the quartermasters on the Essex, it was not likely that
there would be any lack of reminiscences of Paul Jones.
Somers’s appointment was to the Boston, a fine sloop-of-war carrying
twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain McNeill. He was destined to many
adventures before again meeting Decatur, for Captain McNeill was one of
the oddities of the American navy, who, although an able seaman and a
good commander, preferred to conduct his cruise according to his own
ideas and in defiance of instructions from home. This Somers found out
the instant he stepped upon the Boston’s deck at New York. The Essex was
at New York also, and the two friends had traveled from Philadelphia
together. Out in the stream lay the President, flying a commodore’s
broad pennant.
“And although, ‘being grand first luffs,’ we can’t be shipmates, yet
we’ll both be in the same squadron, Dick!” cried Decatur.
“True,” answered Somers, “and a Mediterranean cruise! Think of the
oldsters that would like to go to Europe, instead of us youngsters!”
So their anticipations were cheerful enough, each thinking their
separation but temporary, and that for three years certainly they would
serve in the same squadron.
The two friends reached New York late at night, and early next morning
each reported on board his ship. The Essex was a small but handsome
frigate, mounting thirty-two guns, and was lying close by the Boston at
the dock. As the two young lieutenants, neither of whom was more than
twenty-one, came in sight of their ships, each hugged himself at the
contemplation of his luck in getting so good a one. Decatur’s interview
with Captain Bainbridge was pleasant, although formal. Captain
Bainbridge knew Captain Decatur well, and made civil inquiries about
Decatur’s family and congratulations upon James Decatur—Stephen’s
younger brother—having lately received a midshipman’s appointment.
Captain Bainbridge introduced him to the wardroom, and Decatur realized
that at one bound he had cleared the gulf between the first place in the
steerage and the ranking officer in the wardroom.
All this took but an hour or two of time, and presently Decatur found
himself standing on the dock and waiting for Somers, who had left the
Boston about the same time. As Somers approached, his usual somber face
was smiling. Something ludicrous had evidently occurred.
“What is it?” hallooed Decatur.
Somers took Decatur’s arm before answering, and as they strolled along
the busy streets near the harbor he told his story amid bursts of
laughter:
“Well, I went on board, and was introduced into the captain’s cabin.
There sat Captain McNeill, a red-headed old fellow, with a squint; but
you can’t help knowing that he is a man of force. He talks through his
nose, and what he says is like himself—very peculiar.
“‘Now, Mr. Somers,’ said he, drawling, ‘I daresay you look forward to a
devil of a gay time at the Mediterranean ports, with all that squadron
that Dale has got to show off with.’ I was a good deal taken aback, but
I said Yes, I did. ‘Very well, sir, make up your mind that you won’t
have a devil of a gay time with that squadron.’ I was still more taken
aback, and, being anxious to agree with the captain, I said it didn’t
make any difference; I looked for more work than play on a cruise. This
didn’t seem to please the captain either, so he banged his fist down on
the table, and roared: ‘No, you don’t, sir—no, you don’t! You are no
doubt longing this minute to be on that ship’—pointing out of the stern
port at the President—‘and to have that broad pennant waving over you.
But take a good look at it, Mr. Somers—take a good long look at it, Mr.
Somers, for you may not see it again!’
“You may fancy how astonished I was; but when I went down into the
wardroom and talked with the officers I began to understand the old
fellow. It seems he hates to be under orders. He has always managed to
have an independent command, but this time the navy officials were too
smart for him, and he was ordered to join Commodore Dale’s squadron. But
he managed to get orders so that he could join the squadron in the
Mediterranean, instead of at Hampton Roads, where the other ships are to
rendezvous; and the fellows in the wardroom say they wouldn’t be
surprised if they never saw the flagship from the time they leave home
until they get back.”
“That will be bad for you and me, Dick,” said Decatur simply.
“Very bad,” answered Somers. Their deep affection was sparingly soluble
in language, but those few words meant much.
Within a week the Boston was to sail, and one night, about nine o’clock,
the wind and tide serving, she slipped down the harbor to the outer bay,
whence at daylight she was to set sail on her long cruise. Decatur bade
Somers good-by on the dock, just as the gang-plank was being drawn in.
They had but few parting words to say to each other; their lives had
been so intimate, they knew each other’s thoughts so completely, that at
the last there was nothing to tell. As they stood hand in hand in the
black shadow cast by the Boston’s dark hull, Decatur, whose feelings
were quick, felt the tears rising to his eyes; while Somers, the calm,
the self-contained, suddenly threw his arms about his friend and gave
Decatur a hug and a kiss, as if his whole heart were in it; then running
up the gang-plank, the next moment he was giving the orders of his
responsible position in a firm tone and with perfect alertness. Decatur
turned, and, going a little distance off, watched while the frigate
slowly swung round and headed for the open bay, stealing off like a
ghostly ship in the darkness. He felt the strongest and strangest sense
of loss he had ever known in his life. He had many friends. James, his
brother, who had entered the navy, was near his own age, but Somers was
his other self. Unlike as they were in temperament, no two souls ever
were more alike in the objects aimed at. Each had a passion for glory,
and each set before himself the hope of some great achievement, and
ordered his life accordingly.
This strange loneliness hung upon Decatur, and although his new duties
and his new friends were many, there were certain chambers of his heart
that remained closed to the whole world except Somers. He found on the
Essex a modest young midshipman, Thomas Macdonough, who reminded him so
much of Somers that Decatur became much attached to him. Macdonough,
like Somers and Decatur, lived to make glorious history for his country.
Within a few days the Essex sailed, in company with the President,
flagship, the Philadelphia, and the schooner Enterprise. This cruise was
the beginning of that warfare against the pirates of Tripoli that was to
win the commendation of the whole world. They made a quick passage, for
a squadron, to the Mediterranean, and on a lovely July night, with the
flagship leading, they passed Europa Point and stood toward the lionlike
form of the Rock of Gibraltar that rose in stupendous majesty before
them. A glorious moon bathed all the scene with light—the beautiful
harbor, with a great line-of-battle ship, the Thunderer, flying British
colors; while half a dozen fair frigates looked like sloops alongside of
this warlike monster, which carried a hundred and twenty guns and a crew
of nearly a thousand men.
At the extremity of the harbor lay a handsome frigate and a brig, both
flying the crescent of Tripoli. The large ship also flew the pennant of
an admiral. There being good anchorage between the Tripolitan and the
British line-of-battle ship, Commodore Dale stood in, and the American
squadron anchored between the two.
Early next morning Decatur went ashore in the first cutter, by Captain
Bainbridge’s orders, to find out the state of affairs with Tripoli. He
also hoped to hear something of Somers, who had sailed a week in
advance. He heard startling news enough about the Barbary pirates. The
flagstaff of the American legation at Tripoli had been cut down, and war
was practically declared. But as the information had not reached the
United States before the squadron left, the commodore was not justified
in beginning hostilities until he had received formal notice of the
declaration of war from the home Government. Nevertheless, the
Tripolitans and the Americans watched each other grimly in the harbor.
As for Somers, Decatur was bitterly disappointed not to see him. The
Boston had been quietly at anchor the day before, when a clipper ship
that outsailed the American squadron, which was in no particular hurry,
gave notice that the ships were coming. Instantly Captain McNeill gave
orders to get under way; officers were hurriedly sent ashore to collect
those of the ship’s company on leave or liberty, and before nightfall
the Boston was hull down going up the straits. When Decatur brought the
news on board, Captain Bainbridge frowned, and laughed too.
“The commodore will have harder work to catch the Boston than anything
else he is likely to give chase to,” he said.
Commodore Dale determined to await orders at Gibraltar before making a
regular attack on Tripoli, but he caused it to be boldly announced by
the American officers, meanwhile, that if the Tripolitans wanted to
fight, all they had to do was to lift their anchors, go outside and back
their topsails, and he would be ready for them.
The British naval officers, at that time, treated the American officers
with studied ill-will, for they had not yet learned to look with pride
upon the United States as a country made by themselves, and which Great
Britain found unconquerable because its people were of the same sturdy
stock as her own. The cooler heads and better hearts among the English
officers at Gibraltar counseled courtesy, but among the younger men it
was sometimes difficult to avoid clashes. Especially was this the case
as regards Commodore Dale’s squadron, for he was connected with an
episode hateful to the British, but glorious to both themselves and the
Americans—the capture of the Serapis by Paul Jones. The squadron was
kept in the highest state of drill and efficiency, not only as a matter
of necessary precaution, but as one of professional pride and duty; and
the trim American officers and the clean and orderly American seamen
made a brave showing alongside of those belonging to England, the
Mistress of the Seas.
One night, a week or two after their arrival, as Decatur was pacing the
deck of the Essex, he heard a splash at the bow, and going forward he
saw a man swimming rapidly away from the ship. Suspecting this to be a
deserter, he at once had a boat lowered; and as Macdonough, Decatur’s
favorite midshipman, was about swinging himself into it, Danny Dixon
came up.
“Mr. Decatur,” said he, touching his cap, “that ’ere man is a deserter,
sir, and he’ll be making for the Thunderer, sure. His name is John
Hally, and he come from New York State, and he’s been a scamp ever since
I knowed him—and that’s ten year ago. He’s a thief, and he’s stole a
mort o’ things; but he ain’t been caught yet. I told him this arternoon
I was agoin’ to report him for gittin’ into the men’s ditty-bags; and
you see, sir, he’s showin’ us his heels.”
“Jump in the boat, then,” said Decatur. “You may help to identify him.”
The Thunderer lay about four hundred yards away, and the deserter’s
course in the water was perfectly visible every foot of the distance. He
evidently saw the boat following, and dived once or twice to throw his
pursuers off the track. The noise made by the boat aroused the attention
of the people on the Thunderer. They came to the rail peering through
the darkness of the night, and presently a lantern was waved over the
side. Decatur, who watched it all with interest, was convinced that this
was done by order of an officer, and the object was to help the deserter
from the American frigate. Sure enough, as soon as the swimmer reached
the great line-of-battle ship a line was thrown him, and he was dragged
bodily through an open port on the berth deck. Almost at the same moment
the Essex’s boat came alongside, and young Macdonough ran up the gangway
and stepped on the quarter-deck.
Captain Lockyer, who commanded the Thunderer, happened to be on deck,
and to him Macdonough addressed himself. This young midshipman, like
most of the gallant band of officers in the infant navy, afterward
earned a name great in the history of his country. But he was always of
a peculiarly gentle and even diffident manner, and his mildness, like
that of Somers, was sometimes mistaken for want of spirit. It was in
this instance; for when he saluted Captain Lockyer, and modestly asked
that the deserter be delivered to him, he was only answered by a curt
order to have the man brought on deck, adding, “Your ships, sir, are
full of British subjects, and if this man is one I shall retain him.”
Macdonough flushed redly, but feeling it to be more dignified to say
nothing, he held his tongue. The captain took a turn up and down the
deck, without deigning any further notice of him. Macdonough, not
thinking the rudeness of the captain would extend to the officers,
turned to a young lieutenant, who happened to be Captain Lockyer’s son,
lounging on the rail, and said:
“I am very thirsty. Will you be good enough to order me a glass of
water?”
“Yonder is the scuttle-butt,” coolly responded the officer, pointing to
the water-butt with its tin dipper.
Macdonough, without a word, folded his arms, and made no move toward the
water-butt. The other British officers, standing about, looked rather
uncomfortable at the discourtesy shown the young midshipman, but none of
them attempted to repair it or to teach manners to the captain’s son.
Macdonough, who not many years after captured seventeen British ensigns
in one day, stood, insulted and indignant, in silence, upon the deck of
the British ship.
In a few moments the deserter, who had been supplied with dry clothes,
appeared on deck. As he was an able-bodied fellow, he would be very
acceptable among the crew of the Thunderer, so the captain addressed him
in very mild terms:
“Well, my man, are you a British or an American citizen?”
“British, sir,” responded the deserter boldly.
“This man,” said Macdonough to Captain Lockyer, “is an American citizen
from the State of New York. He enlisted as an American citizen, and I
can prove it by one of our quartermasters in the boat.—Here, Dixon!”
Danny Dixon, hearing his name, now appeared over the side, touching his
cap politely.
“Do you not know this man, John Hally, to be an American citizen?” asked
Macdonough.
“Yes, sir,” replied the quartermaster. “I’ve knowed him for ten year,
and sailed two cruises with him. He’s got a family on Long Island. He
ain’t no more British nor I am.”
“Perhaps you are, then,” said Captain Lockyer. “Your crews are full of
British subjects.”
“No, sir,” answered Danny, very civilly. “I was born in Philadelphy, and
I’ve been in the ’Merican navy ever since I were eleven year old, when I
was a powder-monkey aboard o’ the Bunnum Richard, that ’ere old hulk
with forty-two guns, when she licked the bran-new S’rapis, fifty guns.
The Richard had Cap’n Paul Jones for a cap’n.”
Angry as Macdonough was, he could scarcely keep from laughing at Danny’s
sly dig. But Captain Lockyer was furious.
“Is this the state of discipline prevailing among your crew—allowing
them to harangue their superiors on the quarter-deck?” he asked
cuttingly, of Macdonough.
“Captain Bainbridge, sir, of the Essex, is fully capable of maintaining
discipline without any suggestion from the officers of the Thunderer,”
answered Macdonough firmly, “and the question to be decided is, whether
the word of the officers and men of the Essex is to be taken, or this
man’s, regarding his citizenship.”
“It is the practice in the British navy to take the word of the man
himself, as being most likely to know the facts in the case,” said
Captain Lockyer, “and I decline to give up this man.”
True it was that such was the practice in the British navy, because it
had the power to make good its high-handed measure.
“I do not feel myself qualified to deal with the question any further,
then,” said Macdonough, “and I shall return on board the Essex and
report to Captain Bainbridge,” and in another moment he had bowed
formally and entered his boat.
When he reached the Essex, Captain Bainbridge was not on board, having
gone ashore early in the evening, so Decatur was in command. Decatur’s
anger knew no bounds. He stormed up and down the deck, sent a messenger
off to the captain, and altogether was in just the sort of rage that an
impetuous young officer would be in under like circumstances. But
retaliation was nearer at hand than he imagined. While he and the other
officers were collected in groups on deck, discussing the exasperating
event, Danny Dixon, his face wreathed in smiles, approached.
“Mr. Decatur,” said he, unable to repress a grin of delight, “one o’ the
finest-lookin’ sailor men I ever see, hearin’ ’em say on the Thunderer
as how ’twas a rule to take a man’s word ’bout the country he belongs
to, jist sneaked into our boat, sir, and hid hisself under the gunwale;
and when we was h’istin’ the boat in, out he pops, sir, and swears he’s
a ’Merican that was pressed into the British sarvice.”
Now, a man might very well have concealed himself in the boat, by the
connivance of the men, without Macdonough’s seeing him, but how Danny
Dixon could have avoided knowing it was a miracle. Nevertheless, he
remarked solemnly:
“Didn’t a man in the boat see him, neither, sir—so they say; and, bein’
sailor men, ’tain’t likely they’d lie about it, sir.”
Decatur and Macdonough, charmed with this state of affairs, could hardly
refrain from winking at one another; but Decatur only said: “Very well,
Dixon; if he _says_ he’s an American, mind, we’ll keep him.”
“He’ll say so, sir,” answered Danny, making no effort at all to suppress
his enjoyment.
Good luck followed good luck. Within ten minutes the rattle of hoisting
out a boat from the Thunderer was heard, and in a little while it was
seen pulling across the dark water in which the stars were faintly
reflected. The man’s getting into the American boat had been suspected,
and his absence discovered. But no midshipman had been sent after him.
Lieutenant Lockyer, the officer who had been so rude to Macdonough, and
who, in spite of his bad manners, was a young officer of experience and
determination, was sent in the first cutter. As soon as he stepped on
deck Decatur greeted him politely, but all the other officers maintained
an unbroken silence. Lockyer began at once, in a dictatorial manner:
“One of our men, sir, Moriarity by name, slipped into your boat a bit
ago, and is probably on board now, and I have come to request, in
Captain Lockyer’s name, that this man be delivered to me.”
Lockyer’s “request” sounded very much like “demand.”
“Certainly,” replied Decatur, with much suavity. “If the man
acknowledges himself a British subject, he shall be delivered to you at
once, to be punished as a deserter. But it is the rule in the American
navy to take the word of the man in question respecting his citizenship,
upon which he is likely to be the person best informed.”
This rule was improvised for the occasion, but Decatur was not the man
to be taken at a disadvantage, and he quoted Captain Lockyer’s words to
Macdonough with a sarcastic emphasis that was infuriating to the young
lieutenant.
Decatur then turned to Danny Dixon and said, “Bring the man Moriarity on
deck, if he is on the ship.”
Danny touched his hat, and in a few moments appeared with a young
sailor, of splendid physique, but with a bright red head, and the first
word he uttered was in a brogue that could be cut with a knife.
“Are you a British or an American citizen?” asked Decatur.
“Amurican, sorr,” almost shouted Moriarity. “I and all me posterity was
born in Ameriky, begorra, and I niver was in ould Oireland, God bless
her!”
Decatur could scarcely keep his countenance, and the other officers were
all seized at the same time with coughing spells.
“Who said anything about Ireland?” asked Lieutenant Lockyer sharply.
“You are as Irish as potatoes, and you were never out of Ireland in your
life until you enlisted on the Thunderer.”
“Bedad, sorr, I’d be proud to be an Oirishman,” responded Moriarity with
a grin. “It’s not denyin’ of it I’d be, but me mother was of a noble
Italian family, in rejuced circumstances, be the name of Murphy, and me
father was a Spanish gintleman be the name of Moriarirty, and I was born
in Ameriky, sorr, and pressed into the Thunderer”; and, turning to
Decatur, he added, “And I claims the protection of the Amurican flag.”
Lockyer was silent with rage and chagrin, but Decatur spoke up with
undisturbed blandness:
“You see, sir, how this matter stands. I must take this man’s word, and
you are at liberty to keep the fellow that deserted from us. Your boat
waits, and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.”
Lockyer, thus practically ordered off the ship, bowed slightly and
walked rapidly down the ladder and got into his boat.
Scarcely had he pushed off when Captain Bainbridge’s boat appeared, and
in a few minutes he stepped on deck.
“Anything happened, Mr. Decatur?” he asked, as soon as he caught sight
of his young first lieutenant.
Decatur told him briefly what had occurred. When he finished, Captain
Bainbridge, who was a tall, powerful man, gave him a thwack upon the
shoulder that nearly knocked him down.
“Good for you!” he cried. “You boy officers have as much sense as we
oldsters. I would not take a year’s pay for what has happened this
night!”
Captain Bainbridge, though, had reason to be still more proud of his boy
officers in what followed concerning Moriarity. The Thunderer’s people
were determined to get Moriarity back, and watched their chance for
days. They knew it was impossible to get him off the Essex, and their
opportunity was when the man went ashore on liberty. About two weeks
after this, one bright August day, Captain Bainbridge having gone ashore
on official business and Decatur being again in command, he noticed a
great commotion in a British boat that was pulling off toward the
Thunderer. A man was struggling in the bottom of the boat, and his loud
cries and fierce efforts to free himself and jump overboard were clearly
heard on the Essex. Decatur, whose eyesight was wonderfully keen, called
to Macdonough, who was near him:
“Is not that voice Moriarity’s?”
“Yes,” cried Macdonough, “and he was given liberty this morning, I
happen to know.”
It took Decatur but a moment to act. “Lower the second cutter!” he
cried—the fastest of all the boats; “and you, Macdonough, if
possible—_if possible_, do you hear?—reach that boat before it touches
the ship, and bring me that man!”
Scarcely were the words out of Decatur’s mouth before the boat began to
descend from the davits, and the boat’s crew, with Danny Dixon as
coxswain, dropped in her as she touched the water. Macdonough, his dark
eyes blazing, and almost wild with excitement under his calm exterior,
was the first man in the boat.
“Give way, men!” he said, in a voice of suppressed agitation. “We must
get that man, or never hold up our heads as long as we are at
Gibraltar.”
The men gave way with a will and a cheer, and Macdonough, in the stern
sheets, steered straight for the Thunderer’s boat. The British tars,
realizing what was up, bent to their oars and dashed the diamond spray
in showers around them. Both were about evenly matched, and the question
was whether the Americans could reach the British boat before she got
under the lee of the ship—and then, whether Moriarity could be
recaptured. The American sailors, their oars flashing with the
steadiness and precision of a machine, were gaining a little on the
British boat; but it was plain, if they could intercept it at all, it
would be directly under the quarter of the great line-of-battle ship.
Several officers were in the Thunderer’s boat, and Macdonough recognized
among them Lockyer, the insolent lieutenant. Moriarity, completely
overpowered, lay handcuffed in the bows of the boat.
Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, watched the two cutters speeding
across the dazzling blue of the harbor with an intensity as if his life
depended on it. He had instantly chosen Macdonough to represent the
Essex, and said to himself, involuntarily: “If any one can do it, it is
Macdonough. He is like Somers, quiet and determined. He _can’t_—he
_sha’n’t_ fail!”
His excitement was shared by every officer and man on the Essex, and
also on the Thunderer. Cries and cheers were heard from each ship. At
last, as the two boats neared each other, Macdonough, motioning to Danny
Dixon, gave him the tiller and took a place in the bow of the cutter. He
spoke a word to the men, and they, as if they had reserved the strength
in their brawny arms for a final effort, laid to their oars so that the
boat fairly flew across the water, and in two minutes she had closed up
on the bow of the British boat. As quick as a flash, Macdonough, who was
a tall fellow, leaned forward, and, catching Moriarity by the waistband
of his trousers, lifted him bodily into the American boat. In the
suddenness of the movement not one of the dozen oars raised to strike
Macdonough touched, and in another moment the Americans had sheered off,
and the men were cheering wildly, while they still worked their oars
sturdily. Lockyer, standing up in the British boat, shouted:
“The Thunderer will blow you out of the water for that!”
“No doubt she is fully able to do it,” cried Macdonough in reply; “but
we will never give up this man as long as our ship will float!”
Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, fairly jumped with delight.
“Somers—Somers,” he cried to himself, without knowing what he was
saying, “I knew that brave young Macdonough was like you!”
Cheers resounded. The American tars, gathered on the fok’sl, danced with
delight. The Thunderer’s boat had made some effort to follow the
American, but the latter had come about so quickly that she gained too
long a lead to be overtaken, and after a few minutes her adversary
sullenly put about and returned to the Thunderer. The Americans did not
relax their efforts, though, and in a little while were landed on the
Essex’s deck. Decatur embraced Macdonough and fairly kissed him, much to
Macdonough’s embarrassment.
“You remind me of the most gallant fellow that lives—Dick Somers!” cried
Decatur, “and that’s praise enough for any man. Send the armorer here to
take Moriarity’s handcuffs off.”
“Av ye plaze, sorr,” said Moriarity, “maybe it ’ud be safer to keep the
bracelets on, and to give me a pair o’ leg irons to decorate me legs
wid; for I shall be axin’ for liberty, sure, if I’m ’lowed around, and
then I’ll be captured by thim Johnny Bulls. So, av ye plaze, sorr, put
me in double irons while we’re in port, and that’s the only way to kape
me from gittin’ into a peck o’ trouble agin, sorr.”
“You’ll not be put in irons, but you’ll get no more liberty while you’re
at Gibraltar,” answered Decatur, laughing.
“Thanky, sorr,” responded Moriarity. “If ye’ll kape to that, maybe I can
do widout the double irons.”
When Captain Bainbridge came on board, Decatur eagerly told him of
Macdonough’s gallant exploit, and the captain’s delight was unbounded.
“By heavens!” he chuckled, “these boy officers of mine manage to do
something handsome every time I leave them to themselves. If I stayed on
shore altogether, I believe they’d lick everything in sight, in one way
or another!”
Several weeks had now passed, and, owing to the slowness of
communication from home, no official declaration of war had reached
them. The squadron cruised about the Mediterranean, giving convoy, and
ready to begin active hostilities as soon as called upon. The Tripolitan
pirates were still at work, whenever they dared, but the watchful energy
of the American squadron kept them from doing much harm. Meanwhile the
Boston was cruising over the same ground; but whenever the squadron put
into port, either the Boston had just left, or she arrived just as the
squadron disappeared. This was very exasperating to Commodore Dale; but
as Captain NcNeill was ostensibly in hot pursuit of the squadron, and
always had some plausible excuse for not falling in with it, the
commodore could do nothing but leave peremptory orders behind him and in
advance of him, which invariably reached Captain McNeill just a little
too late or too early.
It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had
expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they
had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina,
where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:
“My dear Decatur: Here we are, going aloft, with a fair wind, while I
am perfectly sure that the sail reported off the starboard quarter is
one of the squadron—perhaps the Essex! As you know, Captain McNeill is
apparently the most anxious man imaginable to report to his commanding
officer; but if Commodore Dale wins in this chase, he will be a seaman
equal to Paul Jones himself. For Captain McNeill is one of the very
ablest seamen in the world, and, much as his eccentricities annoy us,
his management of the ship is so superb that we can’t but admire the
old fellow. But I tell you privately that he has no notion of taking
orders from anybody, and the commodore will never lay eyes on him
during the whole cruise. Nevertheless, he is doing good service,
giving convoy, and patrolling the African coast so that the Barbary
corsairs are beginning to be afraid to show their noses when the
Boston is about.”
Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:
“Just as I had written the last word, another sail was reported off
the starboard quarter, and all of us are convinced that it is your
squadron. I even think I recognize the rig of the Essex, among the
four ships now visible. But old McNeill, sending his favorite
lookout—an old sailor, Jack Bell, the captain of the maintop—aloft, we
know very well that you will soon be hull down, and we ripping it as
fast as we can leg it, on the opposite tack. Jack Bell, you must know,
understands the captain’s peculiarity, and never sees anything the
captain doesn’t wish to see. So he has just come down with the report
that, of the four ships, not one is square enough in her rig to be a
war ship, and that he thinks they are French transports! You can’t
imagine with what a straight face he says this, and how infuriated we
are. The captain then turns and says to us: ‘Gentlemen, this is most
unfortunate. I was in hopes this was Commodore Dale’s squadron, but it
is evidently not.’ And now we are bearing away due north, with every
stitch of canvas set that will draw! I said that all of us are
infuriated. That is not quite correct, for two or three odd fish among
us have become infected with the captain’s mania, and declare that,
for the credit of the thing, they don’t wish to be caught, for it is
really a chase and a pursuit.
“In regard to my shipmates, I find them pleasant fellows, but still I
feel, as I always shall, the loss of your companionship, my dear
Decatur. Perhaps, had I a father or a mother, I should feel
differently, but your parents are the persons who have treated me with
the most paternal and maternal affection. As for you, we have lived so
long in intimacy, that I can scarcely expect to form another such
friendship, and, indeed, it would be impossible. I am glad that you
are becoming fond of young Macdonough. Several of the midshipmen on
this ship know him, and speak of him as a young officer of wonderful
nerve and coolness. Well did you come off in your dispute with the
Thunderer! I only hope that Macdonough, as young as he is, may
exercise some of that restraint over you which you have always charged
me with, Decatur. You are much too rash, and I wish I could convince
you that there are occasions in every officer’s life when prudence is
the very first and greatest virtue. Of course, you will laugh at this,
and remind me of many similar warnings I have given you, but I can not
help advising you; you know I have been doing that ever since we were
lads together at Dame Gordon’s school. I heard a story of the great
Nelson, the other day, that reminded me of you. When he was a very
young child he went one day to his mother and said to her: ‘I hear
people speak of “fear,” of “being afraid.” What is it? What is fear?’
The child was, indeed, father of the man in that case.”
[Illustration: _The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate._]
Here came another break, and a new date.
“I was about to close my letter, when one of our officers got a letter
from a friend on the Enterprise; and as it shows how the Barbary
corsairs fight, I will tell you a part of it. While running for Malta,
on the 1st of August, the Enterprise came across a polacca-rigged
ship, such as the Barbary corsairs usually have, with an American brig
in tow. It had evidently been captured and her people sent adrift.
Sterrett, who commands the Enterprise, as soon as he found the
position of affairs, cleared for action, ran out his guns, and opened
a brisk fire on the Tripolitan. He got into a raking position, and his
broadside had a terrific effect upon the pirate. But—mark the
next—three times were the Tripolitan colors hauled down, and then
hoisted again as soon as the fire of the Enterprise ceased. After the
third time, Sterrett played his broadside on the pirate with the
determination to sink him for such treachery; but the Tripolitan rais,
or captain, appeared in the waist of his ship, bending his body in
token of submission, and actually threw his ensign overboard. Sterrett
could not take the ship as prize, because no formal declaration of war
had reached him from the United States; but he sent Midshipman
Porter—you remember David Porter, who, with Rodgers, carried the
French frigate L’Insurgente into port after Commodore Truxtun had
captured her—aboard of the pirate, to dismantle her. He had all her
guns thrown overboard, stripped her of everything except one old sail
and a single spar, and let her go, with a message to the Bashaw of
Tripoli that such was the way the Americans treated pirates. I
understand that when the _rais_ got to Tripoli with his one old sail,
he was ridden through the town on a jackass, by order of the Bashaw,
and received the bastinado; and that since then the Tripolitans are
having great trouble in finding crews to man their corsair ships
because of the dread of the ‘Americanos.’ One more thing—I must tell
you about our red-headed captain. There was a great dinner given at
Messina to the officers of a Swedish frigate and ourselves. You know
how the Swedes drink! Well, Captain McNeill, in addition to his other
virtues, is very abstemious. So, the night of the dinner, when the
Swedish officers began to pass the decanters, Captain McNeill lay back
in his chair scowling, and the next thing he was sound asleep. After
he had snored about two hours, he suddenly waked up and bawled out,
‘Have those d——d Swedes got through with their guzzling and tippling
yet?’ Imagine our feelings!
“Now I must tell you a piece of news almost too good to be true. I
hear the Government is building four beautiful small schooners, to
carry sixteen guns, for use in the Tripolitan war, which is to be
pushed very actively; and that you, my dear Decatur, will command one
of these vessels, and I another! I can write nothing more exhilarating
after this; so, I am, as always,
“Your faithful friend,
“Richard Somers.”
Many letters passed between the two friends, but they did not once meet
during the whole cruise. Captain McNeill, true to his intention, never
allowed himself to be overhauled by his superior officer, and at the end
of two years returned to the United States without ever having seen the
flagship of the squadron to which he was attached. He had done good
work, though, and so the authorities winked at his odd cruise, and the
brave old captain enjoyed his triumph.