Essex was lying at the Marquesas Islands, recruiting and refreshing her
crew from one of the long and arduous cruises in the Pacific, Commodore
Porter was informed through a servant of one of the officers, that
a mutiny had been planned, and was on the eve of consummation. That
it was the intention of the mutineers to rise upon the officers—take
possession of the ship—and, after having remained as long as they found
agreeable at the island, to hoist the black flag and “cruize on their
own account.”—Having satisfied himself of the truth of the information,
Commodore Porter ascended to the quarter-deck, and ordered all the crew
to be summoned aft. Waiting till the last man had come from below, he
informed them that he understood that a mutiny was on foot, and that he
had summoned them for the purpose of inquiring into its truth.—“Those
men who are in favour of standing by the ship and her officers,” said
the commodore, “will go over to the starboard side—those who are against
them will remain where they are.” The crew, to a man, moved over to the
starboard side. The ship was still as the grave. Fixing his eyes on
them steadily and sternly for a few moments—the commodore said—“Robert
White—step out.” The man obeyed, standing pale and agitated—guilt stamped
on every lineament of his countenance—in front of his comrades. The
commodore looked at him a moment—then seizing a cutlass from the nearest
rack, said, in a suppressed voice, but in tones so deep that they rung
like a knell upon the ears of the guilty among the crew—“Villain!—you
are the ringleader of this mutiny—jump overboard!” The man dropt on his
knees, imploring for mercy—saying that he could not swim. “Then drown,
you scoundrel!” said the commodore, springing towards him to cut him
down—“overboard instantly!”—and the man jumped over the side of the
ship. He then turned to the trembling crew, and addressed them with much
feeling—the tears standing upon his bronzed cheek as he spoke. He asked
them what he had done, that his ship should be disgraced by a mutiny.
He asked whether he had ever dishonoured the flag—whether he had ever
treated them with other than kindness—whether they had ever been wanting
for any thing to their comfort, that discipline and the rules of the
service would allow—and which it was in his power to give. At the close
of his address, he said—“Men!—before I came on deck, I laid a train to
the magazine!—and I would have blown all on board into eternity, before
my ship should have been disgraced by a successful mutiny—I never would
have survived the dishonour of my ship!—go to your duty.” The men were
much affected by the commodore’s address, and immediately returned to
their duty, showing every sign of contrition. They were a good crew, but
had been seduced by the allurements of the islands, and the plausible
representations of a villain. That they did their duty to their flag, it
is only necessary to say—that the same crew fought the ship afterwards
against the Phebe, and Cherub, in the harbour of Valparaiso, where,
though the American flag descended—it descended in a blaze of glory which
will long shine on the pages of history. But mark the sequel of this
mutiny—and let those who, _in the calm security of their firesides_,
are so severe upon the course of conduct pursued by officers in such
critical situations, see how much innocent blood would have been saved,
if White had been cut down instantly, or hung at the yard arm. As he
went overboard, he succeeded in reaching a canoe floating at a little
distance and paddled ashore. Some few months afterwards, when Lieutenant
Gamble of the Marines was at the islands, in charge of one of the large
prizes, short handed and in distress, this same White, at the head of
a party of natives, attacked the ship, killed two of the officers and
a number of the men, and it was with great difficulty that she was
prevented from falling into their hands. The blood of those innocent men,
and the lives of two meritorious officers would have been spared, if the
wretch had been put to instant death—as was the commodore’s intention.
It will be recollected, that the Essex, in getting under way, out of the
harbour of Valparaiso, carried away her foretop-mast in a squall, and
being thus unmanageable, came to anchor in the supposed protection of a
neutral port—nevertheless the Phebe, frigate, and Cherub, sloop-of-war,
attacked her in this position—the former with her long guns, selecting
her distance—cutting her up at her leisure—while the Essex, armed only
with carronades, lay perfectly helpless—her shot falling short of the
Phebe, although they reached the Cherub, which was forced to get out
of their range. “I was standing,” said my informant, then a midshipman
only fourteen years old, “I was standing at the side of one of our bow
chasers, (the only long guns we had,) which we had run aft out of the
stern port—when the Phebe bore up, and ran under our stern to rake us.
As she came within half-pistol shot (!) she gave us her whole broadside
at the same instant.—I recollect it well!” said the officer—“for as I
saw the flash, I involuntarily closed my eyes—expecting that she would
have blown us out of the water—and she certainly would have sunk us on
the spot, but firing too high, her shot cut our masts and rigging all to
pieces, doing little injury to the hull. Singular as it may seem, the
discharge of our one gun caused more slaughter than the whole of their
broadside, for while we had but one man wounded, the shot from our gun
killed two of the men at the wheel of the Phebe, and glancing with a
deep gouge on the main-mast, mortally wounded her first Lieutenant, who
died on the following day.”
* * * * *
_Long Island Sound._—NEW ENGLAND TRADITIONS.—There are few countries
where traditions and legends are handed down from generation to
generation with more fidelity than in New England, more particularly
along the sea-coast and the shores of the Sound. The “fire ship” is
supposed even now by the old fishermen to be seen cruising occasionally
in the vicinity of Block Island in the furious storms of thunder and
lightning. The tradition is, that she was taken by pirates—all hands
murdered, and abandoned after being set on fire by the bucaneers. Some
accounts state that a large white horse which was on board, was left
near the foremast to perish in the flames—and in storms of peculiarly
terrific violence that she may be seen, rushing along enveloped in fire,
the horse stamping and pawing at the heel of the foremast, her phantom
crew assembled at quarters. In the early part of the last century, a ship
came ashore a few miles beyond Newport, on one of the beaches—all sails
set—the table prepared for dinner, but the food untouched, and no living
thing on board of her. It was never ascertained what had become of her
crew—but it was supposed that she had been abandoned in some moment of
alarm, and that they all perished, although the vessel arrived in safety.
The phantom horse will recall to mind a real incident, which occurred
not long since in the conflagration of one of the large steamboats on
Lake Erie. A fine race horse was on board, and secured, as is usual,
forward. Of course his safety was not looked to, while all were making
vain efforts to save themselves from their horrible fate. As the flames
came near him he succeeded in tearing himself loose from his fastenings,
rushing franticly through the fire and smoke fore and aft, trampling down
the unfortunate victims that were in his way, adding still more horror
to a scene which imagination can hardly realize, until frenzied with the
pain and agony of the fire, he plunged overboard and perished.
But the favourite and most cherished traditions are those relating to
hidden treasure. The writer well recollects one to which his attention
was attracted in his childhood. Mr. ——, inhabiting one of those fine
old mansions in Newport, which had been built fifty years before, by
an English gentleman of fortune, where taste and caprice had been
indulged to the extreme, and where closets, and beaufets, and cellars,
and pantries, appeared to meet one at every turn, was engaged late one
winter’s night writing in his study, when he found it necessary to
replenish his fire with fuel. The servants having retired, he took a
candle and went himself to the cellar to procure it, and as he passed
the vault called the “wine cellar,” his attention was attracted by a
light streaming through the key-hole of the door. He stopped a moment and
called out supposing that some of the family were in the apartment—but
instantly the light vanished. He stepped up to the door and endeavoured
to open it, but found to his surprise that it was fastened,—a thing
that was unusual as the door constantly stood ajar. Calling out again,
“who’s there?” without receiving any answer, he placed his foot against
the door, and forced it open, when a sight met his eyes, which for a
moment chained him to the spot. In the centre of the cellar in a deep
grave which had been already dug, and leaning upon his spade, was a
brawny negro, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders, and the
sweat trickling down his glistening black visage, while on the pile of
earth made from the excavation, stood another negro, a drawn sword in
one hand, a lantern with the light just extinguished in the other, and
an open bible with two hazle rods across it, lying at his feet—these
swart labourers the moment that the door was thrown open, making the most
earnest signs for silence. As soon as Mr. —— could command his voice, he
demanded the meaning of what he saw and what they were about. They both
simultaneously then declared that the charm was broken by his voice. One
of the worthies, who was the groom of the family, had dreamed five nights
in succession, that old Mr. E—— the builder of the house, had buried
a bootful (!) of gold in that cellar—and on comparing notes with his
brother dreamer, he found that his visions also pointed to treasure in
the old house, and they had proceeded secundem artem to its attainment,
both vehemently declaring that they intended to give part of the treasure
to Mr. ——. Of course, the door being opened, the strange negro was
required to add the darkness of his visage to that of night, while the
groom was on pain of instant dismission, together with the threat of the
ridicule of the whole town, directed to fill up the grave, and thereafter
to let the buried treasure sleep where its owner had seen fit to deposit
it.
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