fight or frolic—and, so far as I sees, it don’t much matter which. Now,
there was Captain ——, he was a Lieutenant then;—I was up in a draft of
men, with him to the lakes in the war, and as there was no canals nor
steamboats in them days, they marched us up sojer fashion. As we marched
along the road, there was nothing but skylarking and frolic the whole
time,—never a cow lying in the road but the lads must ride, nor a pig,
but they must have a pull at his tail. I recollects, once’t, as we was
passing a farm yard, Jim Albro, as was alongside of me—what does Jim do,
but jumps over the fence and catches a goose out of the pond, and was
clearing with it under his arm, but the farmer, too quick for him, grabs
his musket out of his door, and levelling at Jim, roars out to drop the
goose. Jim catches the goose’s neck tight in his hand, as it spraddles
under his arm, and then turning his head over his shoulder, cries out,
‘_You fire_,—I’ll wring his neck off.’ And so Jim would have got off with
the goose, but one of the officers seeing what was going on, orders Jim
to drop the goose, and have a care how he aggravates the honest farmers
in that ere sort of a way; for, ‘By the powers!’ said he, ‘Mister Jim
Albro—this isn’t the first time, and if I hear of the like agin from
you,—but your back and the boatswain’s mate shall scrape an acquaintance
the first moment we come within the smell of a tarred ratlin.’
“It was wrong, to be sure, for Bill to take the man’s goose, seeing as
how it was none of his; but there was one affair that same day, as the
lads turned up to, and though a steady man, I’m free to confess I had a
hand in’t. Why, what do you think sir, but as we what was bound for to
fight the battles of our country—what do you think, but as we comes to
one of them big gates they has on the roads, but the feller as keeps it,
damme, sir, what does he do? but makes all fast, and swear that we shan’t
go through without paying! I’m free to confess, sir, that that ere gate
went off its hinges a little quicker than the chain of our best bower
ever run through the hawse hole. A cummudgeonly son of a land lubber,—as
if, because we didn’t wear long-tail coats, and high-heel boots, we was
to pay like horses and oxen! If the miserable scamp hadn’t’ve vanished
like a streak into the woods, we’d have paid him out of his own tar
bucket, and rolled him over in the feathers of one of his wife’s own
beds. But, d’ye see, that wasn’t the end of it. Them ere lawyers gets
hold of it—and it was the first time any of them land-shirks ever came
athwart my hawse.
“When we gets to the next town, up comes a constable to the midshipman,
supposing as how he was in command of the draft—up comes the constable,
and says, says he, ‘Capting, I arrests you for a salt and battery, in
behalf of these here men, as has committed it,’ meaning, you understand,
the affair of the gate. Well, the midshipman, all ripe for frolic and fun
himself, pulls a long face, and says gruffly, that his men hadn’t been
engaged in no salt, or no battery; but that they was ready at all times
to fight for their country, and asks him whereaway that same English
battery lay, as he would answer for the lads’ salting it quick enough.
Then the lawyer as was standing with his hands behind him, up and tells
him that ‘it’s for a trespass in the case.’ ‘Oh! a trespass in the
gate—you mean,’ says the midshipman; but just then the lieutenant comes
up to see what’s the muss, and bids me put on my jacket, for d’ye see, I
had squared off to measure the constable for a pair of black eyes—hang me
if the feller didn’t turn as white as a sheet. ‘Put on your jacket, sir,’
says he, ‘and leave the man alone;’ and then turning to the midshipman,
‘Mr. ——, take the men down to the tavern and splice the main-brace, while
I walk up to the justice’s with the gentle man to settle this affair.
And, hark’ee, ye rascals,’ says he, ‘don’t disgrace the name of blue
jacket in this quiet village, but behave yourselves till I return.’ Well,
he and the lawyer walks up to the justice’s, and there they three takes a
glass of wine together, and that’s the last we hearn of that ere business.
“There agin, when we took the Peacock;—you all knows about that ere
action; it was what I calls short and sweet. Fifteen minutes from the
first gun, he was cut almost entirely to pieces, his main-mast gone by
the board, six feet of water in the hold, and his flag flying in the
fore-rigging, as a signal of distress. The sea was running so heavy, as
to wash the muzzles of our guns, as we run down. We exchanged broadsides
at half pistol shot, and then, as he wore to rake us, we received his
other broadside, running him close in upon the starboard quarter, and a
drunken sailor never hugged a post closer, nor we did that brig, till
we had hammered day-light out of her. A queer thing is war, though,
and I can’t say as I was ever satisfied as to its desarts, though I’ve
often turned the thing over in my mind in mid-watch since. There was we,
what was stowing our round shot into that ere brig, as if she had been
short of kenteledge, and doing all we could to sweep, with our grape and
cannister, every thing living, from her decks,—there was we, fifteen
minutes after, working as hard as we could pull to, to keep her above
water, while we saved her wounded, and the prisoners, like as she had
been an unfortunate wrack, foundering at sea. But all wouldn’t do—down
she went, carrying thirteen of her own wounded, besides some of our own
brave lads, as was exerting themselves to save them, and mighty near did
Bill Kennedy come to being one of the number, and having a big D marked
agin his name, on the purser’s book, at that same time. The moment she
showed signals of distress, all our boats was put in requisition to
transport the prisoners and wounded to the Hornet. I was in the second
cutter, with midshipman C——; he was a little fellow then, tho’ he’s a
captain now. Well, we stowed her as full as she could stow, and I was
holding on by the boat-hook in the bows, jist ready to push off, when
midshipman C——, jumps aboard agin, and runs back to call a couple of the
Englishmen, as was squared off at each other, at the foot of the main
hatch ladder, settling some old grudge—(for d’ye see, sir, all discypline
is over the moment a ship strikes)—he runs back to tell them to clear
themselves—for the ship was sinking,—but before he could reach it, she
rolls heavily, sways for an instant from side to side, gives a heavy
lurch, and then, down she goes head foremost, carrying them fellers as
was squared off agin each other, and her own wounded, besides four or
five of our own brave lads, right down in the vortex. Our boat spun
round and round like a top, for a moment, and then swept clear, but the
midshipman barely saved himself, by springing into an empty chest as
was floating by, and there he was dancing about in the heavy sea, like a
gull in the surf, and it was nigh on two hours afore we picked him up;
but the little fellow was jist as cool and unconsarned, as if he was in a
canoe on a fish-pond. The next day we opens a subscription, and furnishes
all the British seamen with two shirts, and a blue jacket and trowsers
each,—cause why—d’ye see, they’d lost all their traps in their ship when
she went down.”
OLD KENNEDY, THE QUARTER-MASTER.
(Perry’s Victory on Lake Erie.)
No. III.
“But,” says I, “Kennedy—I think you said your draft was bound for the
lakes—which did you go to, Ontario, or Erie?” “I was on both, sir,” says
he, “afore the war was over; and we got as much accustomed to poking our
flying jib-boom into the trees on them shores, as if the sticks was first
cousins—which, seeing as how the ships was built in the woods, wouldn’t
be much of a wonder. Part of that ere draft staid down on Ontario, with
the old commodore, as was watching Sir James, and part was sent up to
Erie. I went up to Erie and joined the Lawrence, Commodore Oliver H.
Perry—and I hopes that old Bill Kennedy needn’t be called a braggart, if
he says he did his part in showing off as handsome a fight on that same
fresh-water pond, as has ever been done by an equal force on blue water.
Our gallant young commodore, made as tight a fight of it as it has ever
been my luck to be engaged in; and seeing as how half of his men was
down with fever and ager, and not one in a dozen knew the difference
between the smell of gunpowder and oil of turpentine, blow me! but I
think it was about as well done.
“You see our squadron was lying in a bay, as they calls Put-in-Bay—and
when the enemy first hove in sight, it was in the morning, about seven
o’clock. I knows that that was the time, because I had just been made
Quarter-Master, by Captain Perry, and was the first as seen them through
my glass. They was in the nor’-west, bearing down: as soon as we made
them out to be the enemy’s fleet, up went the signal to get under way;
our ship, the Lawrence, in course taking the lead. Well, as we was
working slowly to windward to clear some small islands—one of ’em was
Snake Island—I hearn Captain Perry come up to the master, and ask him in
a low voice, whether he thought he should be able to work out to windward
in time to get the weather-gage of the enemy; but the master said as how
the wind was sou’-west, and light, and he didn’t think he could. ‘Then,’
said the commodore, aloud, ‘wear ship, sir, and go to leeward, for I am
determined to fight them to-day,’—but just then, the wind came round to
the south’ard and east’erd, and we retained the weather-gage, and slowly
bore down upon the enemy. They did all they could to get the wind, but
not succeeding, hove into line, heading westward, and gallantly waited
for us as we came down.
“There lay their squadron, all light sails taken in, just like a boxer,
with his sleeves rolled up, and handkercher tied about his loins, ready
to make a regular stand-up fight, and there wasn’t a braver man, nor
better sailor, in the British navy, nor that same Barclay, whose broad
pennant floated in the van of that squadron.
“Pretty soon, up runs our motto-flag, the dying words of our hero
Lawrence—‘_Don’t give up the ship_,’ and floats proudly from our main,
and then the general order was passed down the line by trumpet, ‘_Each
ship, lay your enemy alongside_’—and if you ever seen a flock of wild
geese flying south’erd in the fall of the year, you’ll have some idee
of us, as we went down into action. The men was full of spirit, and
panting for a fight, and even them as was so sick, as to be hardly able
to stand, insisted upon taking their places at the guns. I recollects one
in particular—he was a carpenter’s mate, a steady man, from Newport—he
crawls up when we beat to quarters, and seats himself upon the head of
one of the pumps, with the sounding-rod in his hand, looking as yellow
as if he had just been dragged out of a North Carolina cypress swamp:
but one of the officers comes up to him as he was sitting there, and
says—‘You are too sick to be here, my man,—there’s no use of your being
exposed for nothing—you had better go below.’ ‘If you please, sir,’ says
the poor fellow, ‘if I can do nothing else, I can save the time of a
better man, and sit here and sound the pump.’ Well, sir, as we bore
down, the English occasionally tried our distance by a shot, and when
we was within about a mile of ’em, one comes ricochetting across the
water, bounds over the bulwarks, and takes that man’s head as clean off
his shoulders, as if it had been done with his own broad-axe. I have
hearn say, that ‘every bullet has its billet,’ and that is sartin, that
it’s no use to dodge a shot, for if you are destined to fall by a shot,
you will sartin fall by that same shot; and I bears in mind, that an
English sailor, one of our prisoners, told me that in a ship of their’n a
feller, as skulked in the cable-tier, during an action with the French,
was found dead with a spent forty-two resting on his neck. The ball had
come in at the starn-port—struck one of the beams for’ard, and tumbled
right in upon him, breaking his neck, as he lay snugly coiled away in the
cable-tier. No, no—misfortins and cannon shot is very much alike—there’s
no dodging—every man must stand up to his work, and take his chance—if
they miss, he is ready when they pipes to grog—if they hit, the purser’s
book is squared, and no more charges is scored agin him.
“But as I was saying, it wasn’t long before we begun to make our
carronades tell, and then at it we went, hot and heavy, the Lawrence
taking the lead, engaging the Detroit, and every vessel as she came up,
obeying orders and laying her enemy alongside, in right good arnest,
except the Niagara. She hung back—damn her—with her jib brailed up, and
her main-topsail to the mast—consequence was, the Charlotte, as was her
opponent, avails herself of her distance—runs up close under the starn
of the Detroit, and both ships pours in their combined fire into our
ship the Lawrence. I hearn the master myself, and afterwards two or
three of the other officers, go up to the Commodore during the action,
and call his attention to the Niagara, and complain of her treacherous
or cowardly conduct. Well, them two ships gin it to us hot and heavy,
and in three minutes we was so enveloped in smoke, that we only aimed
at the flashes of their guns, for we might as well have tried to trace
a flock of ducks in the thickest fog on the coast of Labrador, as their
spars or hulls. I was working at one of the for’ard guns, and as after
she was loaded, the captain of the piece stood waiting with the trigger
lanyard in his finger, ready to pull, one of the officers calls out, ‘I
say, sir, why don’t you fire?’ ‘I want to make her tell, sir,’ says the
gunner,—‘I am waiting for their flash,—there it is’—and as he pulled
trigger, a cannon shot came through the port, and dashed him to pieces
between us, covering me and the officer all over with his brains. Their
fire was awful; the whole of the shot of the two heaviest ships in the
squadron pouring into us nigh on two hours without stopping. Our brig
became a complete slaughter-house—the guns dismounted—carriages knocked
to pieces—some of our ports knocked into one—hammock-netting shot clean
away—iron stancheons twisted like wire—and a devilish deal more day-light
than canvass in our bolt ropes—the wounded pouring down so fast into
the cockpit, that the surgeons didn’t pretend to do more than apply
tourniquets to stop the bleeding; and many of the men came back to the
guns in that condition; while others was killed in the hands of the
surgeons. One shot came through the cockpit, jist over the surgeon’s
head, and killed midshipman Laub, who was coming up on deck, with a
tourniquet at his shoulder, and another killed a seaman who had already
lost both arms. Our guns was nearly all dismounted; and finally, there
was but one that could be brought to bear; and so completely was the
crew disabled, that the commodore had to work at it with his own hands.
The men became almost furious with despair, as they found themselves
made the target for the whole squadron; and the wounded complained
bitterly of the conduct of the Niagara, as they lay dying on the decks,
and in the cockpit. Two shots passed through the magazine—one knocked
the lantern to pieces, and sent the lighted wick upon the floor; and if
the gunner hadn’t have jumped on it with his feet, before it caught the
loose powder—my eyes! but that ere ship and every thing on board would
have gone into the air like a sheaf of sky-rockets, and them as was on
board, never would have know’d which side whipped. Out of one hundred
men that went into action, eighty-three were either killed or wounded,
and every officer was killed or hurt except the Commodore. Our Lieutenant
of marines, lieutenant Brooks—him as was called the Boston Apollo—the
handsomest man in the sarvice, was cut nearly in two by a cannon shot,
and died before the close of the action.
“It was nigh on all up with us. The men was real grit though, and even
the wounded, cried, ‘Blow her up,’ rather than strike. Well, as things
stood, there was an end of the Lawrence, so far as fighting went,—and our
Commodore says, says he,—‘Lieutenant Yarnall, the American flag must not
be pulled down over my head this day, while life remains in my body: I
will go on board that ship and bring her myself into action—and I will
leave it to you to pull down the Lawrence’s flag, if there is no help for
it.’ So we got our barge alongside, by the blessing of Heaven, not so
much injured but what she’d float, and off we pushed for the Niagara—the
Commodore standing with his motto flag under his arm; but as soon as the
enemy caught sight of us, they delivered a whole broadside directly at
the boat—and then peppered away so briskly, that the water all around us
bubbled like a duck-pond in a thunder shower. There Perry stood, erect
and proud, in the starn sheets—his pistols strapped in his belt, and his
sword in his hand—his eyes bent upon the Niagara,—as if he’d jump the
distance,—never heeding the shot flying around him like hail. The men
begged him to sit down—they entreated him with tears in their eyes—but it
was not until I dragged him down by main force,—the men declaring that
they would lay upon their oars and be taken—that he consented.
“There’s them as says the Niagara _wouldn’t_ come down, and there’s them
as says she _couldn’t_—all _I_ knows is, that when our gallant young
Commodore took the quarter-deck, she walked down into the thickest of it
quick enough—my eyes! how we did give it to ’em, blazing away from both
sides at once. We ran in between the Detroit and Charlotte, our guns
crammed to the muzzle, and delivered both of our broadsides into them at
the same time—grape, cannister and all,—raking the others as we passed;
and the Niagara lads showed it wasn’t no fault of their’n, that they
hadn’t come earlier to their work. I never know’d guns sarved smarter,
than they sarved their’n, till the end of the action—nor with better
effect. We soon silenced the enemy, and run up the stars again on the
Lawrence as she lay a complete wrack, shattered and cut up among them,
for all the world like a dead whale surrounded by shirks. They struck one
after another, much like you may have seen the flags of a fleet run down
after the evening gun; and as the firing ceased, and the heavy smoke bank
rolled off to leeward, shiver my timbers! but it was a sight for a Yankee
tar to see the striped bunting slapping triumphantly in the breeze over
the British jacks at their gaffs.
“If there’s any man, tho’, as says that their Commodore wasn’t a man
every inch of him, aye! and as good a seaman, too, as ever walked a
caulked plank, there’s one here, and his name’s Bill Kennedy, as will
tell him, that he’s a know-nothing, and talks of a better man nor
himself. Aye—aye—scrape the crown off his buttons, and he might mess
with Decatur and Lawrence, and splice the main-brace with Stewart and
Hull, and they be proud of his company. He was badly cut up, tho’, and
I have hear’n tell, that when he got home to England, he wouldn’t go
for to see the lady what he’d engaged to marry, but sent her word by a
friend—I don’t know who that friend was—but suppose it was his first
lieutenant, in course,—he sends her word that he wouldn’t hold her to her
engagement—cause why, says he, ‘I’m all cut to pieces, and an’t the man I
was, when she engaged for to be my wife.’ Well, what d’ye think the noble
girl says, when she hearn this;—‘Tell him,’ says she, ‘as long as there’s
enough of him left to hold his soul, I will be his.’—I say, Master Tom,
that’s most up to the Virginny gals. Well—well—there never was but one,
as would have said as much for Bill Kennedy, and she, poor Sue—she
married curly-headed Bob, captain of the main-top in the Hornet,—in a
pet, and was sorry when it was too late. She was a good girl, though—and
I’ve lent her and her young ones a hand once’t or twice since in the
breakers.”
OLD KENNEDY, THE QUARTER-MASTER.
(Chesapeake and Shannon—Boat Fight on Lake Ontario.)
No. IV.