"Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us
to-day; you will be named in the despatches."
And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony, and gave it to
Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan
cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that
infernal day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards on occasions of
ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the commodore's.
The captain did mention him in the despatches. It was always said he
asked that he might be pardoned. He wrote a special letter to the
Secretary of War. But nothing ever came of it. As I said, that was about
the time when they began to ignore the whole transaction at Washington,
and when Nolan's imprisonment began to carry itself on because there was
nobody to stop it without any new orders from home.
I have heard it said that he was with Porter when he took possession of
the Nukahiwa Islands. Not this Porter, you know, but old Porter, his
father, Essex Porter,--that is, the old Essex Porter, not this Essex.
[Note 9] As an artillery officer, who had seen service in the West,
Nolan knew more about fortifications, embrasures, ravelins, stockades,
and all that, than any of them did; and he worked with a right good-will
in fixing that battery all right. I have always thought it was a pity
Porter did not leave him in command there with Gamble. That would have
settled all the question about his punishment. We should have kept the
islands, and at this moment we should have one station in the Pacific
Ocean. Our French friends, too, when they wanted this little
watering-place, would have found it was preoccupied. But Madison and the
Virginians, of course, flung all that away.
All that was near fifty years ago. If Nolan was thirty then, he must
have been near eighty when he died. He looked sixty when he was forty.
But he never seemed to me to change a hair afterwards. As I imagine his
life, from what I have seen and heard of it, he must have been in every
sea, and yet almost never on land. He must have known, in a formal way,
more officers in our service than any man living knows. He told me once,
with a grave smile, that no man in the world lived so methodical a life
as he. "You know the boys say I am the Iron Mask, and you know how busy
he was." He said it did not do for any one to try to read all the time,
more than to do anything else all the time; and that he used to read
just five hours a day. "Then," he said, "I keep up my notebooks, writing
in them at such and such hours from what I have been reading; and I
include in these my scrap-books." These were very curious indeed. He had
six or eight, of different subjects. There was one of History, one of
Natural Science, one which he called "Odds and Ends." But they were not
merely books of extracts from newspapers. They had bits of plants and
ribbons, shells tied on, and carved scraps of bone and wood, which he
had taught the men to cut for him, and they were beautifully
illustrated. He drew admirably. He had some of the funniest drawings
there, and some of the most pathetic, that I have ever seen in my life.
I wonder who will have Nolan's scrapbooks.
Well, he said his reading and his notes were his profession, and that
they took five hours and two hours respectively of each day. "Then,"
said he, "every man should have a diversion as well as a profession. My
Natural History is my diversion." That took two hours a day more. The
men used to bring him birds and fish, but on a long cruise he had to
satisfy himself with centipedes and cockroaches and such small game. He
was the only naturalist I ever met who knew anything about the habits of
the house-fly and the mosquito. All those people can tell you whether
they are _Lepidoptera_ or _Steptopotera_; but as for telling how you can
get rid of them, or how they get away from you when you strike them,
--why Linnaeus knew as little of that as John Foy the idiot did. These
nine hours made Nolan's regular daily "occupation." The rest of the time
he talked or walked. Till he grew very old, he went aloft a great deal.
He always kept up his exercise; and I never heard that he was ill. If
any other man was ill, he was the kindest nurse in the world; and he
knew more than half the surgeons do. Then if anybody was sick or died,
or if the captain wanted him to, on any other occasion, he was always
ready to read prayers. I have said that he read beautifully.
My own acquaintance with Philip Nolan began six or eight years after the
English war, on my first voyage after I was appointed a midshipman. It
was in the first days after our Slave-Trade treaty, while the Reigning
House, which was still the House of Virginia, had still a sort of
sentimentalism about the suppression of the horrors of the Middle
Passage, and something was sometimes done that way. We were in the South
Atlantic on that business. From the time I joined, I believe I thought
Nolan was a sort of lay chaplain,--a chaplain with a blue coat. I never
asked about him. Everything in the ship was strange to me. I knew it was
green to ask questions, and I suppose I thought there was a
"Plain-Buttons" on every ship. We had him to dine in our mess once a
week, and the caution was given that on that day nothing was to be said
about home. But if they had told us not to say anything about the planet
Mars or the Book of Deuteronomy, I should not have asked why; there were
a great many things which seemed to me to have as little reason. I first
came to understand anything about "the man without a country" one day
when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An
officer was sent to take charge of her, and, after a few minutes, he
sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could
speak Portuguese. We were all looking over the rail when the message
came, and we all wished we could interpret, when the captain asked who
spoke Portuguese. But none of the officers did; and just as the captain
was sending forward to ask if any of the people could, Nolan stepped out
and said he should be glad to interpret, if the captain wished, as he
understood the language. The captain thanked him, fitted out another
boat with him, and in this boat it was my luck to go.
When we got there, it was such a scene as you seldom see, and never want
to. Nastiness beyond account, and chaos run loose in the midst of the
nastiness. There were not a great many of the negroes; but by way of
making what there were understand that they were free, Vaughan had had
their handcuffs and ankle-cuffs knocked off, and, for convenience' sake,
was putting them upon the rascals of the schooner's crew. The negroes
were, most of them, out of the hold, and swarming all round the dirty
deck, with a central throng surrounding Vaughan and addressing him in
every dialect, and patois of a dialect, from the Zulu click up to the
Parisian of Beledeljereed. [Note 10]
As we came on deck, Vaughan looked down from a hogshead, on which he had
mounted in desperation, and said:--
"For God's love, is there anybody who can make these wretches understand
something? The men gave them rum, and that did not quiet them. I knocked
that big fellow down twice, and that did not soothe him. And then I
talked Choctaw to all of them together; and I'll be hanged if they
understood that as well as they understood the English."
Nolan said he could speak Portuguese, and one or two fine-looking
Kroomen were dragged out, who, as it had been found already, had worked
for the Portuguese on the coast at Fernando Po.
"Tell them they are free," said Vaughan; "and tell them that these
rascals are to be hanged as soon as we can get rope enough."
Nolan "put that into Spanish,"--that is, he explained it in such
Portuguese as the Kroomen could understand, and they in turn to such of
the negroes as could understand them. Then there was such a yell of
delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan's
feet, and a general rush made to the hogshead by way of spontaneous
worship of Vaughan, as the _deus ex machina_ of the occasion.
"Tell them," said Vaughan, well pleased, "that I will take them all to
Cape Palmas."
This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the
homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they
would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as
we could understand, instantly said, "_Ah, non Palmas_," and began to
propose infinite other expedients in most voluble language. Vaughan was
rather disappointed at this result of his liberality, and asked Nolan
eagerly what they said. The drops stood on poor Nolan's white forehead,
as he hushed the men down, and said:--
"He says, 'Not Palmas.' He says, 'Take us home, take us to our own
country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and
our own women.' He says he has an old father and mother who will die if
they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and
paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them,
and that these devils caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and
that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says,"
choked out Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six
months, while he has been locked up in an infernal barracoon."
Vaughan always said he grew gray himself while Nolan struggled through
this interpretation: I, who did not understand anything of the passion
involved in it, saw that the very elements were melting with fervent
heat, and that something was to pay somewhere. Even the negroes
themselves stopped howling, as they saw Nolan's agony, and Vaughan's
almost equal agony of sympathy. As quick as he could get words, he
said:--
"Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the Mountains of
the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White
Desert, they shall go home!"
And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing
him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs.
But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go
back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the
stern-sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: "Youngster, let that
show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without
a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word, or to do a thing
that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and your
country, pray God in His mercy to take you that instant home to His own
heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do
everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk
about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you
have to travel from it; and rush back to it when you are free, as that
poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy," and the words
rattled in his throat, "--and for that flag," and he pointed to the ship,
"never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the
service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to
you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another
flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag.
Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind
officers, and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself,
your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own
mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother, if those
devils there had got hold of her to-day!"
I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out
that I would, by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of
doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in
a whisper, say: "O, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your
age!"
I think it was this half-confidence of his, which I never abused, for I
never told this story till now, which afterward made us great friends.
He was very kind to me. Often he sat up, or even got up, at night, to
walk the deck with me, when it was my watch. He explained to me a great
deal of my mathematics, and I owe to him my taste for mathematics. He
lent me books, and helped me about my reading. He never alluded so
directly to his story again; but from one and another officer I have
learned, in thirty years, what I am telling. When we parted from him in
St. Thomas harbor, at the end of our cruise, I was more sorry than I can
tell. I was very glad to meet him again in 1830; and later in life, when
I thought I had some influence in Washington, I moved heaven and earth
to have him discharged. But it was like getting a ghost out of prison.
They pretended there was no such man, and never was such a man. They
will say so at the Department now! Perhaps they do not know. It will not
be the first thing in the service of which the Department appears to
know nothing!
There is a story that Nolan met Burr once on one of our vessels, when a
party of Americans came on board in the Mediterranean. But this I
believe to be a lie; or, rather, it is a myth, _ben trovato_, involving
a tremendous blowing-up with which he sunk Burr,--asking him how he
liked to be "without a country." But it is clear from Burr's life, that
nothing of the sort could have happened; and I mention this only as an
illustration of the stories which get a-going where there is the least
mystery at bottom.
Philip Nolan, poor fellow, repented of his folly, and then, like a man,
submitted to the fate he had asked for. He never intentionally added to
the difficulty or delicacy of the charge of those who had him in hold.
Accidents would happen; but never from his fault. Lieutenant Truxton
told me that, when Texas was annexed, there was a careful discussion
among the officers, whether they should get hold of Nolan's handsome set
of maps and cut Texas out of it,--from the map of the world and the map
of Mexico. The United States had been cut out when the atlas was bought
for him. But it was voted, rightly enough, that to do this would be
virtually to reveal to him what had happened, or, as Harry Cole said, to
make him think Old Burr had succeeded. So it was from no fault of
Nolan's that a great botch happened at my own table, when, for a short
time, I was in command of the George Washington corvette, on the South
American station. We were lying in the La Plata, and some of the
officers, who had been on shore and had just joined again, were
entertaining us with accounts of their misadventures in riding the
half-wild horses of Buenos Ayres. Nolan was at table, and was in an
unusually bright and talkative mood. Some story of a tumble reminded him
of an adventure of his own when he was catching wild horses in Texas
with his adventurous cousin, at a time when he mast have been quite a
boy. He told the story with a good deal of spirit,--so much so, that the
silence which often follows a good story hung over the table for an
instant, to be broken by Nolan himself. For he asked perfectly
unconsciously.--
"Pray, what has become of Texas? After the Mexicans got their
independence, I thought that province of Texas would come forward very
fast. It is really one of the finest regions on earth; it is the Italy
of this continent. But I have not seen or heard a word of Texas for near
twenty years."
There were two Texan officers at the table. The reason he had never
heard of Texas was that Texas and her affairs had been painfully cut out
of his newspapers since Austin began his settlements; so that, while he
read of Honduras and Tamaulipas, and, till quite lately, of California,
--this virgin province, in which his brother had travelled so far, and,
I believe, had died, had ceased to be to him. Waters and Williams, the
two Texas men, looked grimly at each other and tried not to laugh.
Edward Morris had his attention attracted by the third link in the chain
of the captain's chandelier. Watrous was seized with a convulsion of
sneezing. Nolan himself saw that something was to pay, he did not know
what. And I, as master of the feast, had to say,--
"Texas is out of the map, Mr. Nolan. Have you seen Captain Back's
curious account of Sir Thomas Roe's Welcome?"
After that cruise I never saw Nolan again. I wrote to him at least twice
a year, for in that voyage we became even confidentially intimate; but
he never wrote to me. The other men tell me that in those fifteen years
he aged very fast, as well he might indeed, but that he was still the
same gentle, uncomplaining, silent sufferer that he ever was, bearing as
best he could his self-appointed punishment,--rather less social,
perhaps, with new men whom he did not know, but more anxious,
apparently, than ever to serve and befriend and teach the boys, some of
whom fairly seemed to worship him. And now it seems the dear old fellow
is dead. He has found a home at last, and a country.
Since writing this, and while considering whether or no I would print
it, as a warning to the young Nolans and Vallandighams and Tatnalls of
to-day of what it is to throw away a country, I have received from
Danforth, who is on board the "Levant," a letter which gives an account
of Nolan's last hours. It removes all my doubts about telling this
story. The reader will understand Danforth's letter, or the beginning of
it, if he will remember that after ten years of Nolan's exile every one
who had him in charge was in a very delicate position. The government
had failed to renew the order of 1807 regarding him. What was a man to
do? Should he let him go? What, then, if he were called to account by
the Department for violating the order of 1807? Should he keep him?
What, then, if Nolan should be liberated some day, and should bring an
action for false imprisonment or kidnapping against every man who had
had him in charge? I urged and pressed this upon Southard, and I have
reason to think that other officers did the same thing. But the
Secretary always said, as they so often do at Washington, that there
were no special orders to give, and that we must act on our own
judgment. That means, "If you succeed, you will be sustained; if you
fail, you will be disavowed." Well, as Danforth says, all that is over
now, though I do not know but I expose myself to a criminal prosecution
on the evidence of the very revelation I am making.