The following strange story was told to me many years ago, and,
although some of the details have been forgotten, the incident, which
was declared to be quite true, led to one of the most extraordinary
exploits of the War between the States in the famous recapture of the
_Emily St. Pierre_.
While Great Britain was at war with France in the year 1813, a small
Scotch brig was approaching the British Channel on the last leg of her
voyage from the West Indies for Greenock on the river Clyde. She had
successfully eluded strange sails and the captain was quite hopeful of
reaching his destination without encountering a French privateer, but
alas, when the brig was within a few days' sail of the "land o'cakes,"
a smarter vessel, bearing the tricolor at her peak, overhauled the
Scotsman, and, with a round shot across her bows, compelled her
surrender. A French prize crew was placed on board with orders to
sail the brig to the nearest French port for adjudication. The Scotch
captain and his cabin boy were retained on board as prisoners, the
former to assist in the working of the brig and the latter to wait
upon the prize crew. With the enemy's flag apeak, the little brig
was headed for the enemy's country and was soon alone upon the sea.
With the accustomed discipline of the man-of-war somewhat relaxed,
the Frenchmen, wishing to make merry over their good fortune, sought
among the brig stores the red wine to which they were accustomed,
instead of which they broached a cask of Jamaica rum, under whose
masterful potency they became as dead men. The Scotsman was quick
to seize his opportunity, and with the lone assistance of his cabin
boy he dragged every man Jack into his forecastle and securely tied
them to their bunks; the officers were likewise secured in the cabin
and the course of the brig laid straight and true again for bonnie
Scotland. On the following morning while the brig was slowly proceeding
under light canvas, which the master himself had set while the boy
steered, another Frenchman gave chase and the hopes of the Scotsman
gave way to despair as the swift cruiser overhauled him hand over
hand. Turning to the French officer whom he had secured to the poop
deck for the fresh air, he was astonished to find him in a state of
terror instead of in triumph at the prospect of his release. Quickly
the Frenchman explained in his own language, with which the Scotch
captain was familiar, that his disgraceful plight and that of his crew
would result in his speedy courtmartial and execution at the yard arm;
that if the Scotch captain would accept his parole, restore to him his
uniform and sword, assume with his cabin boy the uniforms of two of his
Frenchmen, hoist the French ensign and leave the rest to him, he would
extricate the brig, resume his bonds, and cast his lot in Scotland, for
he could never see his own country again. This was quickly done, for
the alternative but assured the brig's recapture. On came the armed
Frenchman. Boom! went one of her guns. The brig rounded to, and in
response to his countryman's hail, the quondam prize master shouted
through his trumpet that he was of the French privateer, in charge of
a prize ship, taking her to a French port. The commander of the armed
vessel waved a salute and sailed away quite satisfied. The _status
quo ante_ of the brig was resumed, as arranged, the Clyde was reached
in safety, and the descendants of the French prize crew can account
for some of the mysterious French names still heard in the Scottish
Highlands to this day. And, _mirabile dictu_, the cabin boy of the brig
became the hero of the following true story and was subsequently well
known as the captain of a Confederate blockade-running steamer into
Wilmington. It was during the fourth year of the war that this very
extraordinary man, Capt. William Wilson, appeared in Cape Fear waters
in command of a steamer which ran the blockade at Wilmington perhaps
three or four times; but there was nothing unusual about this incident,
and perhaps for that reason I have forgotten her name. There was,
however, something very unusual about Wilson, whose unequalled bravery
in recapturing his ship the _Emily St. Pierre_, of Charleston, S.C.,
in 1861, was, of all the stirring incidents of the blockade, the most
admirable example of personal pluck and endurance. I have been told
by a kinsman of Miss Emily St. Pierre, for whom the ship was named,
that she still lives in Charleston, and I am repeating this story of
Wilson's wonderful exploits at his request. Although not strictly a
story of the Cape Fear, it will be none the less interesting to our
readers, and I reproduce the account published in _Chambers's Edinburg
Journal_ entitled "A Matter-of-Fact Story."
"On the morning of the 18th of March, 1862, the Liverpool ship _Emily
St. Pierre_ (William Wilson, captain) arrived within about twelve
miles of Charleston and signaled for a pilot. She had made a long and
tedious voyage of four months from Calcutta, bound for St. John, New
Brunswick, calling at Charleston for orders if Charleston was open.
If the Southern port was blockaded, Captain Wilson's orders were to
proceed direct to the British port of St. John, New Brunswick. The ship
had formerly belonged to Charleston, but since the outbreak of the
American Civil War she had sailed under the English flag. Her nominal
owners were Messrs. Fraser, Trenholm & Co., of 10 Rumford Place,
Liverpool, a firm doing an extensive business, who had very close
relations with the Confederate or Southern States, for whom they acted
as bankers and agents in this country.
"Upon approaching the Charleston Bar, the ship was hailed by a vessel
which proved to be the Northern cruiser _James Adger_, and in response
Captain Wilson hauled up his courses, backed his main yard, and lay
to. An American naval lieutenant and a score of men came on board and
demanded his papers. The manifest showed an innocent cargo, 2,000 bales
of gunny bags, and the registration of the ship as English was in due
order. Charleston being blockaded, the captain demanded permission
to proceed to his destination, the British port of St. John. The
lieutenant refused, and referred the matter to his superior in command;
and the two vessels proceeded into Charleston roadstead, where they
arrived at half past two in the afternoon.
"Captain Wilson was ordered on board the flagship of the blockading
squadron, the _Florida_, where he was kept for two hours in solitude
and suspense. At last a flag officer, Captain Goldsboro, came to him
and said they had decided to seize the _Emily St. Pierre_ on several
grounds. He asserted that she carried contraband of war--namely,
saltpeter; that her English registration was not bona fide; that many
articles on board had been found bearing the name Charleston; that the
same word had been scraped out on her stern and the name Liverpool
substituted; that Captain Wilson had not disclosed all his papers, but
had been observed from the _James Adger_ to throw overboard and sink
a small parcel, probably of incriminating documents. Captain Wilson
protested and appealed to the maritime law of nations, but in vain. He
was informed that the law courts of Philadelphia would adjudicate the
matter; and finally Captain Wilson was invited to take passage in his
vessel to Philadelphia and to place at the disposal of the navigator
his charts and instruments. The invitation in form was in fact a
command. He returned to his vessel to find that his crew had all been
removed, with the exception of two who were not sailors--the steward,
named Matthew Montgomery, and the cook, named Louis Schevlin, hailing
from Frankfort-on-the-Main. These were merely passengers and with them
was an American engineer who had obtained permission to take passage to
Philadelphia.
"The prize crew who took charge of the vessel consisted of Lieutenant
Stone, of the United States Navy, in command; a master's mate and
twelve men, fourteen in all; with the American passenger, fifteen. The
moment that Captain Wilson again stepped aboard his own vessel, he
formed the resolution to recapture her and take her home. He was bold
enough to think that it might be possible to recapture the ship even
against such odds. An unarmed man, aided by the questionable support of
a steward and a cook, was practically powerless against the fifteen of
the crew. On the other hand, Captain Wilson was a brawny, big-framed
Scotsman (a native of Dumfriesshire), a thorough seaman, determined in
resolve, cool and prompt in action. He called the steward and the cook
to him in his stateroom and disclosed the wild project he had formed.
Both manfully promised to stand by their chief. This was at half past
four on the morning of the 21st of March, the third day out from
Charleston. Captain Wilson had already formed his plan of operations,
and had prepared to a certain extent for carrying it out. With the
promise of the cook and the steward secured, he lost no time, gave
them no chance for their courage to evaporate, but proceeded at once
in the darkness and silence of the night to carry out his desperate
undertaking. He was prepared to lose his life or to have his ship; that
was the simple alternative.
"It was Lieutenant Stone's watch on deck, and the prize master's mate
was asleep in his berth. The Scotch captain went into the berth, handed
out the mate's sword and revolvers, clapped a gag made of a piece
of wood and some marline between his teeth, seized his hands, which
Montgomery, the steward, quickly ironed, and so left him secure. The
lieutenant still paced the deck, undisturbed by a sound. Then across
to another stateroom, where the American engineer lay asleep. He also
was gagged and ironed silently and without disturbance. His revolvers
and those already secured were given to the steward and the cook, who
remained below in the cabin. Captain Wilson went on deck.
"Lieutenant Stone was pacing the deck, and the watch consisted of one
man at the helm, one at the lookout, on the forecastle, and three
others who were about the ship. For ten minutes Captain Wilson walked
up and down, remarking on the fair wind, and making believe that
he had just turned out. The ship was off Cape Hatteras, midway of
their journey between Charleston and Philadelphia, the most easterly
projection of the land on that coast. It is difficult navigation
thereabouts, with the cross currents and a tendency to fogs, affording
the two captains subject for talk.
"'Let her go free a bit, Captain Stone; you are too close to the cape.
I tell you and I know.'
"'We have plenty of offing,' replied the lieutenant; and then to the
helmsman: 'How's her head?'
"'Northeast and by east, sir,' came the reply.
"'Keep her so. I tell you it is right,' said the lieutenant.
"'Well, of course I am not responsible now, but I am an older sailor
than you, Captain Stone, and I tell you if you want to clear Hatteras,
another two points east will do no harm. Do but look at my chart; I
left it open on the cabin table. And the coffee will be ready now,' and
Captain Wilson led the way from the poop to the cabin, followed by the
commander.
"There was a passage about five yards long leading from the deck to the
cabin, a door at either end. The captain stopped at the first door,
closing it, and picking from behind it an iron belaying pin which he
had placed there. The younger man went forward to the cabin where the
chart lay upon the table.
"'Stone!' The lieutenant turned at the sudden peremptory exclamation of
his name. His arm upraised, the heavy iron bolt in his hand, in low,
but hard, eager, quick words, 'My ship shall never go to Philadelphia!'
said the captain. He did not strike. It was unnecessary. Montgomery had
thrust the gag in the young lieutenant's mouth; he was bound hand and
foot, bundled into a berth, and the door locked. Three out of fifteen
were thus disposed of. There was still the watch on deck and the watch
below.
"The construction of the _Emily St. Pierre_ was of a kind not unusual,
but still not very common. The quarters of the crew were not in the
forecastle, but in a roundhouse amidships. The name does not describe
its shape. It was an oblong house on deck with windows and one door.
From the poop, or upper deck, at the stern, over the cabins and
staterooms and the passage before mentioned, there was a companion
stair on the port side leading to the deck at the waist; whilst a
similar companionway at the stern led down to the level of the deck,
which could also be approached direct from the cabins through the
passage. In this space, behind the poop, was the wheel, slightly
raised, for the steersman to see clear of the poop; and there was
a hatchway leading to the lazaret hold, a small supplementary hold
usually devoted to stores, extra gear, coils of spare rope, and so on.
Nothing that might be done on this part of the deck could be seen,
therefore, from the waist of the ship; vice versa, except by the
steersman, who was elevated by a step or two above the level.
"Coming on this part of the deck from the cabin, Captain Wilson called
to the three men who were about, and pointing to a heavy coil of rope
in the lazaret, ordered them to get it up at once--Lieutenant Stone's
orders. They jumped down without demur, suspecting nothing, as soon
as the captain shoved the hatch aside. They were no sooner in than
he quickly replaced and fastened the hatch. The three were securely
trapped in full view of the helmsman, whose sailor's instinct kept him
in his place at the wheel.
"'If you utter a sound or make a move,' said the captain, showing a
revolver, 'I'll blow your brains out!' and then he called aft the
lookout man, the last of the watch on deck. The man came aft. Would
he help to navigate the ship to England? No; he would not. He was an
American. Then would he call the watch? He would do that. And eagerly
he did it; but the next moment he was laid low on the deck, and bundled
unceremoniously into the lazaret with his three companions, the
hatchway replaced and secured, Captain Wilson standing on guard near by.
"Meanwhile the watch below had been called and were astir. When sailors
tumble out they generally do so gradually and by twos and threes. The
first two that came aft were quickly overpowered, one at a time, and
bound. The third man drew his knife and dashed at the steward, who
fired, wounding him severely in the shoulder. It was the only shot that
was fired. Finding that cook and steward and captain were all armed,
the rest of the watch below quietly surrendered, and submitted to be
locked in the roundhouse, prisoners of the bold and resolute man who in
the course of an hour had thus regained possession of his ship against
overwhelming odds.
"For England! Yes, homeward bound in an unseaworthy ship; for a ship
that is undermanned is unseaworthy to the last degree. It is worse
than overloading. And here is our brave captain 3,000 miles from home
calmly altering her course the few points eastward he had recommended
to the lieutenant, homeward bound for England, his crew a steward and
a cook! Neither could steer, nor hand, nor reef. Brave-hearted Matthew
Montgomery, honest Louis Schevlin, now is the time to show what savor
of seamanship you have picked up amongst your pots and pans of the
galley and the pantry.
"The first thing was to wash and bandage the wounded shoulder of the
man who was shot, the next to put all the prisoners in the roundhouse
under lock and key. Four of them out of twelve volunteered to assist
in working the ship rather than submit to the tedium of imprisonment.
The irony of fate. But one of the four could steer, and he imperfectly.
And the courses are set, and the topsails, lower and upper, are drawing
and the topgallant sails, too--pray Heaven this wind may last and no
stronger.
"The lieutenant was admitted to the captain's table under guard and on
parole. The meal over, he was ushered into his stateroom and locked in.
Once a day only--for the captain is captain and crew combined--bread
and beef and water were passed to the prisoners in the roundhouse; no
more attention than absolutely necessary could be spared to them.
"Homeward bound! Captain Wilson had overcome his captors; could he
overcome the elements? The glass was falling, the wind was rising,
threatening a gale. The reef tackles were passed to the capstan, so
that one man's strength could haul them. Then the wheel was resigned
to the Irish steward and German cook, whilst the captain had to lie
aloft and tie the reef points, ever and anon casting a look behind and
signaling to his faithful men how to move the wheel. Hours of hard
work, fearful anxiety before all is made snug to meet the fury of the
coming storm. All is right at last, thought the captain, if everything
holds.
"Yes, if. Everything did not hold. The tiller was carried away in the
midst of the gale, and Captain Wilson, brave heart as he was, felt the
sadness of despair. He had been keeping watch day and night without
intermission for many days, snatching an hour's sleep at intervals,
torn with anxiety, wearied with work. It was but a passing faintness of
the heart. The ship rolled and tossed, helmless, at the mercy of the
sea. For twelve hours he wrought to rig up a jury rudder, and at last,
lifting up his heart in gratitude, for the second time he snatched his
ship out of the hands of destruction; for the second time he could
inform Lieutenant Stone that he was in command of his own ship. No
longer was the ship buffetted at the mercy of the wild wind and the
cruel Atlantic rollers, but her course was laid true and her head
straight--for England.
"For thirty days they sailed with westerly gales behind them. They made
the land in safety, and the code signal was hoisted as they passed up
the English Channel. On the morning of the 21st of April, exactly one
month since her course was altered on Cape Hatteras, the _Emily St.
Pierre_ threaded the devious channels which led into the broad estuary
of the Mersey, the anchor fell with a plunge and an eager rattle of the
leaping cable, and the ship rode stately on the rushing tide.
"Much was made of Captain Wilson during the next few weeks. All England
rang with applause of his brave exploit. Meetings were convened,
presentations were made, speeches were delivered to the extent that
might have turned the head of a less simple and true-hearted man. Large
sums of money were subscribed, of which plucky Matthew Montgomery and
honest Louis Schevlin, the cook, got their share. But probably the
happiest and proudest moment of his life was when the captain stood on
deck on the day of the arrival, his wife by his side, near her the
owner of the ship, Charles K. Prioleau, of Fraser, Trenholm & Co.,
whilst he narrated in simple words the story of his exploit. His big
beard was torn and ragged, his eyes bloodshot with weariness and loss
of sleep, his face haggard, weather-beaten, and drawn; but he was a man
of whom all Britain was proud, a man to inspire her with the faith that
the race of heroes does not die."