In such compelling circumstances as these, necessity became the mother
of achievement. There is nothing finer in American history than the
dogged fortitude and high-hearted endeavor with which the merchant
seamen returned to their work after the Revolution and sought and
found new markets for their wares. It was then that Salem played
that conspicuous part which was, for a generation, to overshadow the
activities of all other American seaports. Six thousand privateersmen
had signed articles in her taverns, as many as the total population of
the town, and they filled it with a spirit of enterprise and daring.
Not for them the stupid monotony of voyages coastwise if more hazardous
ventures beckoned and there were havens and islands unvexed by trade
where bold men might win profit and perhaps fight for life and cargo.
Now there dwelt in Salem one of the great men of his time, Elias Hasket
Derby, the first American millionaire, and very much more than this. He
was a shipping merchant with a vision and with the hard-headed sagacity
to make his dreams come true. His was a notable seafaring family,
to begin with. His father, Captain Richard Derby, born in 1712, had
dispatched his small vessels to the West Indies and Virginia and with
the returns from these voyages he had loaded assorted cargoes for Spain
and Madeira and had the proceeds remitted in bills of exchange to
London or in wine, salt, fruit, oil, lead, and handkerchiefs to America.
Richard Derby's vessels had eluded or banged away at the privateers
during the French War from 1756 to 1763, mounting from eight to twelve
guns, "with four cannon below decks for close quarters." Of such a
temper was this old sea-dog who led the militia and defiantly halted
General Gage's regulars at the North River bridge in Salem, two full
months before the skirmish at Lexington. Eight of the nineteen cannon
which it was proposed to seize from the patriots had been taken from the
ships of Captain Richard Derby and stored in his warehouse for the use
of the Provincial Congress.
It was Richard's son, Captain John Derby, who carried to England in the
swift schooner Quero the first news of the affair at Lexington, ahead of
the King's messenger. A sensational arrival, if ever there was one! This
Salem shipmaster, cracking on sail like a proper son of his sire, making
the passage in twenty-nine days and handsomely beating the lubberly
Royal Express Packet Sukey which left Boston four days sooner, and
startling the British nation with the tidings which meant the loss of an
American empire! A singular coincidence was that this same Captain John
Derby should have been the first mariner to inform the United States
that peace had come, when he arrived from France in 1783 with the
message that a treaty had been signed.
Elias Hasket Derby was another son of Richard. When his manifold
energies were crippled by the war, he diverted his ability and abundant
resources into privateering. He was interested in at least eighty of the
privateers out of Salem, invariably subscribing for such shares as might
not be taken up by his fellow-townsmen. He soon perceived that many
of these craft were wretchedly unfit for the purpose and were easily
captured or wrecked. It was characteristic of his genius that he
should establish shipyards of his own, turn his attention to naval
architecture, and begin to build a class of vessels vastly superior in
size, model, and speed to any previously launched in the colonies. They
were designed to meet the small cruiser of the British Navy on even
terms and were remarkably successful, both in enriching their owner and
in defying the enemy.
At the end of the war Elias Hasket Derby discovered that these fine
ships were too large and costly to ply up and down the coast. Instead
of bewailing his hard lot, he resolved to send them to the other side of
the globe. At a time when the British and the Dutch East India companies
insolently claimed a monopoly of the trade of the Orient, when American
merchant seamen had never ventured beyond the two Atlantics, this was a
conception which made of commerce a surpassing romance and heralded the
golden era of the nation's life upon the sea.
His Grand Turk of three hundred tons was promptly fitted out for a
pioneering voyage as far as the Cape of Good Hope. Salem knew her as
"the great ship" and yet her hull was not quite one hundred feet long.
Safely Captain Jonathan Ingersoll took her out over the long road, his
navigating equipment consisting of a few erroneous maps and charts, a
sextant, and Guthrie's Geographical Grammar. In Table Bay he sold his
cargo of provisions and then visited the coast of Guinea to dispose of
his rum for ivory and gold dust but brought not a single slave back,
Mr. Derby having declared that "he would rather sink the whole capital
employed than directly or indirectly be concerned in so infamous a
trade"--an unusual point of view for a shipping merchant of New England
in 1784!
Derby ships were first to go to Mauritius, then called the Isle of
France, first at Calcutta, and among the earliest to swing at anchor off
Canton. When Elias Hasket Derby decided to invade this rich East India
commerce, he sent his eldest son, Elias Hasket, Jr., to England and the
Continent after a course at Harvard. The young man became a linguist
and made a thorough study of English and French methods of trade. Having
laid this foundation for the venture, the son was now sent to India,
where he lived for three years in the interests of his house, building
up a trade almost fabulously profitable.
How fortunes were won in those stirring days may be discerned from
the record of young Derby's ventures while in the Orient. In 1788 the
proceeds of one cargo enabled him to buy a ship and a brigantine in the
Isle of France. These two vessels he sent to Bombay to load with cotton.
Two other ships of his fleet, the Astrea and Light Horse, were filled
at Calcutta and Rangoon and ordered to Salem. It was found, when the
profits of these transactions were reckoned, that the little squadron
had earned $100,000 above all outlay.
To carry on such a business as this enlisted many men and industries.
While the larger ships were making their distant voyages, the brigs and
schooners were gathering cargoes for them, crossing to Gothenburg and
St. Petersburg for iron, duck, and hemp, to France, Spain, and Madeira
for wine and lead, to the French West Indies for molasses to be turned
into rum, to New York, Philadelphia, and Richmond for flour, provisions,
and tobacco. These shipments were assembled in the warehouses on Derby
Wharf and paid for the teas, coffees, pepper, muslin, silks, and ivory
which the ships from the Far East were fetching home. In fourteen years
the Derby ships made one hundred and twenty-five voyages to Europe and
far eastern ports and out of the thirty-five vessels engaged only one
was lost at sea.
It was in 1785 when the Grand Turk, on a second voyage, brought back
a cargo of silks, teas, and nankeens from Batavia and China, that "The
Independent Chronicle" of London, unconsciously humorous, was moved to
affirm that "the Americans have given up all thought of a China trade
which can never be carried on to advantage without some settlement in
the East Indies."
As soon as these new sea-trails had been furrowed by the keels of Elias
Hasket Derby, other Salem merchants were quick to follow in a rivalry
which left no sea unexplored for virgin markets and which ransacked
every nook and corner of barbarism which had a shore. Vessels slipped
their cables and sailed away by night for some secret destination with
whose savage potentate trade relations had been established. It might
be Captain Jonathan Carnes who, while at the port of Bencoolen in
1793, heard that pepper grew wild on the northern coast of Sumatra. He
whispered the word to the Salem owner, who sent him back in the schooner
Rajah with only four guns and ten men. Eighteen months later, Jonathan
Carnes returned to Salem with a cargo of pepper in bulk, the first
direct importation, and cleared seven hundred per cent on the voyage.
When he made ready to go again, keeping his business strictly to
himself, other owners tracked him clear to Bencoolen, but there he
vanished in the Rajah, and his secret with him, until he reappeared with
another precious cargo of pepper. When, at length, he shared this trade
with other vessels, it meant that Salem controlled the pepper market of
Sumatra and for many years supplied a large part of the world's demand.
And so it happened that in the spicy warehouses that overlooked Salem
Harbor there came to be stored hemp from Luzon, gum copal from Zanzibar,
palm oil from Africa, coffee from Arabia, tallow from Madagascar, whale
oil from the Antarctic, hides and wool from the Rio de la Plata, nutmeg
and cloves from Malaysia. Such merchandise had been bought or bartered
for by shipmasters who were much more than mere navigators. They had to
be shrewd merchants on their own accounts, for the success or failure
of a voyage was mostly in their hands. Carefully trained and highly
intelligent men, they attained command in the early twenties and were
able to retire, after a few years more afloat, to own ships and exchange
the quarterdeck for the counting-room, and the cabin for the solid
mansion and lawn on Derby Street. Every opportunity, indeed, was offered
them to advance their own fortunes. They sailed not for wages but for
handsome commissions and privileges--in the Derby ships, five per cent
of a cargo outward bound, two and a half per cent of the freightage
home, five per cent profit on goods bought and sold between foreign
ports, and five per cent of the cargo space for their own use.
Such was the system which persuaded the pick and flower of young
American manhood to choose the sea as the most advantageous career
possible. There was the Crowninshield family, for example, with five
brothers all in command of ships before they were old enough to vote and
at one time all five away from Salem, each in his own vessel and three
of them in the East India trade. "When little boys," to quote from
the memoirs of Benjamin Crowninshield, "they were all sent to a common
school and about their eleventh year began their first particular study
which should develop them as sailors and ship captains. These boys
studied their navigation as little chaps of twelve years old and were
required to thoroughly master the subject before being sent to sea....
As soon as the art of navigation was mastered, the youngsters were sent
to sea, sometimes as common sailors but commonly as ship's clerks, in
which position they were able to learn everything about the management
of a ship without actually being a common sailor."
This was the practice in families of solid station and social rank, for
to be a shipmaster was to follow the profession of a gentleman. Yet the
bright lad who entered by way of the forecastle also played for high
stakes. Soon promoted to the berth of mate, he was granted cargo space
for his own adventures in merchandise and a share of the profits.
In these days the youth of twenty-one is likely to be a college
undergraduate, rated too callow and unfit to be intrusted with the
smallest business responsibilities and tolerantly regarded as unable
to take care of himself. It provokes both a smile and a glow of pride,
therefore, to recall those seasoned striplings and what they did.
No unusual instance was that of Nathaniel Silsbee, later United States
Senator from Massachusetts, who took command of the new ship Benjamin in
the year 1792, laden with a costly cargo from Salem for the Cape of
Good Hope and India, "with such instructions," says he, "as left the
management of the voyage very much to my own discretion. Neither
myself nor the chief mate, Mr. Charles Derby, had attained the age
of twenty-one years when we left home. I was not then twenty." This
reminded him to speak of his own family. Of the three Silsbee brothers,
"each of us obtained the command of vessels and the consignment of their
cargoes before attaining the age of twenty years, viz., myself at the
age of eighteen and a half, my brother William at nineteen and a half,
and my brother Zachariah before he was twenty years old. Each and all of
us left off going to sea before reaching the age of twenty-nine years."
How resourcefully these children of the sea could handle affairs was
shown in this voyage of the Benjamin. While in the Indian Ocean young
Silsbee fell in with a frigate which gave him news of the beginning of
war between England and France. He shifted his course for Mauritius and
there sold the cargo for a dazzling price in paper dollars, which he
turned into Spanish silver. An embargo detained him for six months,
during which this currency increased to three times the value of the
paper money. He gave up the voyage to Calcutta, sold the Spanish dollars
and loaded with coffee and spices for Salem. At the Cape of Good Hope,
however, he discovered that he could earn a pretty penny by sending his
cargo home in other ships and loading the Benjamin again for Mauritius.
When, at length, he arrived in Salem harbor, after nineteen months away,
his enterprises had reaped a hundred per cent for Elias Hasket Derby and
his own share was the snug little fortune of four thousand dollars. Part
of this he, of course, invested at sea, and at twenty-two he was part
owner of the Betsy, East Indiaman, and on the road to independence.
As second mate in the Benjamin had sailed Richard Cleveland, another
matured mariner of nineteen, who crowded into one life an Odyssey of
adventure noteworthy even in that era and who had the knack of writing
about it with rare skill and spirit. In 1797, when twenty-three years
old, he was master of the bark Enterprise bound from Salem to Mocha for
coffee. The voyage was abandoned at Havre and he sent the mate home
with the ship, deciding to remain abroad and gamble for himself with the
chances of the sea. In France he bought on credit a "cutter-sloop"
of forty-three tons, no larger than the yachts whose owners think it
venturesome to take them off soundings in summer cruises. In this little
box of a craft he planned to carry a cargo of merchandise to the Cape of
Good Hope and thence to Mauritius.
His crew included two men, a black cook, and a brace of boys who were
hastily shipped at Havre. "Fortunately they were all so much in debt
as not to want any time to spend their advance, but were ready at the
instant, and with this motley crew, (who, for aught I knew, were robbers
or pirates) I put to sea." The only sailor of the lot was a Nantucket
lad who was made mate and had to be taught the rudiments of navigation
while at sea. Of the others he had this to say, in his lighthearted
manner:
"The first of my fore-mast hands is a great, surly, crabbed, raw-boned,
ignorant Prussian who is so timid aloft that the mate has frequently
been obliged to do his duty there. I believe him to be more of a
soldier than a sailor, though he has often assured me that he has been
a boatswain's mate of a Dutch Indiaman, which I do not believe as he
hardly knows how to put two ends of a rope together.... My cook... a
good-natured negro and a tolerable cook, so unused to a vessel that in
the smoothest weather he cannot walk fore and aft without holding onto
something with both hands. This fear proceeds from the fact that he is
so tall and slim that if he should get a cant it might be fatal to
him. I did not think America could furnish such a specimen of the negro
race... nor did I ever see such a simpleton. It is impossible to teach
him anything and... he can hardly tell the main-halliards from the
mainstay.
"Next is an English boy of seventeen years old, who from having lately
had the small-pox is feeble and almost blind, a miserable object,
but pity for his misfortunes induces me to make his duty as easy as
possible. Finally I have a little ugly French boy, the very image of a
baboon, who from having served for some time on different privateers has
all the tricks of a veteran man-of-war's man, though only thirteen years
old, and by having been in an English prison, has learned enough of the
language to be a proficient in swearing."
With these human scrapings for a ship's company, the cutter Caroline was
three months on her solitary way as far as the Cape of Good Hope, where
the inhabitants "could not disguise their astonishment at the size of
the vessel, the boyish appearance of the master and mate, and the queer
and unique characters of the two men and boy who composed the crew." The
English officials thought it strange indeed, suspecting some scheme of
French spies or smuggled dispatches, but Richard Cleveland's petition
to the Governor, Lord McCartney, ingenuously patterned after certain
letters addressed to noblemen as found in an old magazine aboard his
vessel, won the day for him and he was permitted to sell the cutter and
her cargo, having changed his mind about proceeding farther.
Taking passage to Batavia, he looked about for another venture but found
nothing to his liking and wandered on to Canton, where he was attracted
by the prospect of a voyage to the northwest coast of America to buy
furs from the Indians. In a cutter no larger than the Caroline he risked
all his cash and credit, stocking her with $20,000 worth of assorted
merchandise for barter, and put out across the Pacific, "having on board
twenty-one persons, consisting, except two Americans, of English, Irish,
Swedes and French, but principally the first, who were runaways from
the men-of-war and Indiamen, and two from a Botany Bay ship who had made
their escape, for we were obliged to take such as we could get, served
to complete a list of as accomplished villains as ever disgraced any
country."
After a month of weary, drenching hardship off the China coast, this
crew of cutthroats mutinied. With a loyal handful, including the black
cook, Cleveland locked up the provisions, mounted two four-pounders
on the quarterdeck, rammed them full of grape-shot, and fetched up the
flint-lock muskets and pistols from the cabin. The mutineers were then
informed that if they poked their heads above the hatches he would blow
them overboard. Losing enthusiasm and weakened by hunger, they asked to
be set ashore; so the skipper marooned the lot. For two days the cutter
lay offshore while a truce was argued, the upshot being that four of the
rascals gave in and the others were left behind.
Fifty days more of it and, washed by icy seas, racked and storm-beaten,
the vessel made Norfolk Sound. So small was the crew, so imminent the
danger that the Indians might take her by boarding, that screens
of hides were rigged along the bulwarks to hide the deck from view.
Stranded and getting clear, warding off attacks, Captain Richard
Cleveland stayed two months on the wilderness coast of Oregon, trading
one musket for eight prime sea-otter skins until there was no more
room below. Sixty thousand dollars was the value of the venture when
he sailed for China by way of the Sandwich Islands, forty thousand
of profit, and he was twenty-five years old with the zest for roving
undiminished.
He next appeared in Calcutta, buying a twenty-five-ton pilot boat under
the Danish flag for a fling at Mauritius and a speculation in prizes
brought in by French privateers. Finding none in port, he loaded seven
thousand bags of coffee in a ship for Copenhagen and conveyed as a
passenger a kindred spirit, young Nathaniel Shaler, whom he took into
partnership. At Hamburg these two bought a fast brig, the Lelia Byrd,
to try their fortune on the west coast of South America, and recruited
a third partner, a boyish Polish nobleman, Count de Rousillon, who had
been an aide to Kosciusko. Three seafaring musketeers, true gentlemen
rovers, all under thirty, sailing out to beard the viceroys of Spain!
From Valparaiso, where other American ships were detained and robbed,
they adroitly escaped and steered north to Mexico and California. At
San Diego they fought their way out of the harbor, silencing the
Spanish fort with their six guns. Then to Canton with furs, and Richard
Cleveland went home at thirty years of age after seven years' absence
and voyaging twice around the world, having wrested success from almost
every imaginable danger and obstacle, with $70,000 to make him a rich
man in his own town. He was neither more nor less than an American
sailor of the kind that made the old merchant marine magnificent.
It was true romance, also, when the first American shipmasters set foot
in mysterious Japan, a half century before Perry's squadron shattered
the immemorial isolation of the land of the Shoguns and the Samurai.
Only the Dutch had been permitted to hold any foreign intercourse
whatever with this hermit nation and for two centuries they had
maintained their singular commercial monopoly at a price measured in
terms of the deepest degradation of dignity and respect. The few Dutch
merchants suffered to reside in Japan were restricted to a small
island in Nagasaki harbor, leaving it only once in four years when the
Resident, or chief agent, journeyed to Yeddo to offer gifts and most
humble obeisance to the Shogun, "creeping forward on his hands and feet,
and falling on his knees, bowed his head to the ground, and retired
again in absolute silence, crawling exactly like a crab," said one of
these pilgrims who added: "We may not keep Sundays or fast days, or
allow our spiritual hymns or prayers to be heard; never mention the name
of Christ. Besides these things, we have to submit to other insulting
imputations which are always painful to a noble heart. The reason which
impels the Dutch to bear all these sufferings so patiently is simply the
love of gain."
In return for these humiliations the Dutch East India Company was
permitted to send one or two ships a year from Batavia to Japan and to
export copper, silk, gold, camphor, porcelain, bronze, and rare woods.
The American ship Franklin arrived at Batavia in 1799 and Captain James
Devereux of Salem learned that a charter was offered for one of these
annual voyages. After a deal of Yankee dickering with the hard-headed
Dutchmen, a bargain was struck and the Franklin sailed for Nagasaki with
cloves, chintz, sugar, tin, black pepper, sapan wood, and elephants'
teeth. The instructions were elaborate and punctilious, salutes to be
fired right and left, nine guns for the Emperor's guard while passing
in, thirteen guns at the anchorage; all books on board to be sealed
up in a cask, Bibles in particular, and turned over to the Japanese
officials, all firearms sent ashore, ship dressed with colors whenever
the "Commissaries of the Chief" graciously came aboard, and a carpet on
deck for them to sit upon.
Two years later, the Margaret of Salem made the same sort of a voyage,
and in both instances the supercargoes, one of whom happened to be a
younger brother of Captain Richard Cleveland, wrote journals of the
extraordinary episode. For these mariners alone was the curtain lifted
which concealed the feudal Japan from the eyes of the civilized world.
Alert and curious, these Yankee traders explored the narrow streets of
Nagasaki, visited temples, were handsomely entertained by officers and
merchants, and exchanged their wares in the marketplace. They were as
much at home, no doubt, as when buying piculs of pepper from a rajah of
Qualah Battoo, or dining with an elderly mandarin of Cochin China. It
was not too much to say that "the profuse stores of knowledge brought
by every ship's crew, together with unheard of curiosities from
every savage shore, gave the community of Salem a rare alertness of
intellect."
It was a Salem bark, the Lydia, that first displayed the American
flag to the natives of Guam in 1801. She was chartered by the Spanish
government of Manila to carry to the Marianne Islands, as those dots on
the chart of the Pacific were then called, the new Governor, his family,
his suite, and his luggage. First Mate William Haswell kept a diary in a
most conscientious fashion, and here and there one gleans an item with
a humor of its own. "Now having to pass through dangerous straits," he
observes, "we went to work to make boarding nettings and to get our arms
in the best order, but had we been attacked we should have been taken
with ease. Between Panay and Negros all the passengers were in the
greatest confusion for fear of being taken and put to death in the dark
and not have time to say their prayers."
The decks were in confusion most of the time, what with the Governor,
his lady, three children, two servant girls and twelve men servants,
a friar and his servant, a judge and two servants, not to mention some
small hogs, two sheep, an ox, and a goat to feed the passengers who were
too dainty for sea provender. The friar was an interesting character. A
great pity that the worthy mate of the Lydia should not have been more
explicit! It intrigues the reader of his manuscript diary to be told
that "the Friar was praying night and day but it would not bring a
fair wind. His behavior was so bad that we were forced to send him to
Coventry, or in other words, no one would speak to him."
The Spanish governors of Guam had in operation an economic system which
compelled the admiration of this thrifty Yankee mate. The natives
wore very few clothes, he concluded, because the Governor was the only
shopkeeper and he insisted on a profit of at least eight hundred per
cent. There was a native militia regiment of a thousand men who were
paid ten dollars a year. With this cash they bought Bengal goods,
cottons, Chinese pans, pots, knives, and hoes at the Governor's store,
so that "all this money never left the Governor's hands. It was fetched
to him by the galleons in passing, and when he was relieved he carried
it with him to Manila, often to the amount of eighty or ninety thousand
dollars." A glimpse of high finance without a flaw!
There is pathos, simple and moving, in the stories of shipwreck and
stranding on hostile or desert coasts. These disasters were far more
frequent then than now, because navigation was partly guesswork and
ships were very small. Among these tragedies was that of the Commerce,
bound from Boston to Bombay in 1793. The captain lost his bearings and
thought he was off Malabar when the ship piled up on the beach in the
night. The nearest port was Muscat and the crew took to the boats in the
hope of reaching it. Stormy weather drove them ashore where armed Arabs
on camels stripped them of clothes and stores and left them to die among
the sand dunes.
On foot they trudged day after day in the direction of Muscat, and how
they suffered and what they endured was told by one of the survivors,
young Daniel Saunders. Soon they began to drop out and die in their
tracks in the manner of "Benjamin Williams, William Leghorn, and Thomas
Barnard whose bodies were exposed naked to the scorching sun and finding
their strength and spirits quite exhausted they lay down expecting
nothing but death for relief." The next to be left behind was Mr. Robert
Williams, merchant and part owner, "and we therefore with reluctance
abandoned him to the mercy of God, suffering ourselves all the horrors
that fill the mind at the approach of death." Near the beach and a
forlorn little oasis, they stumbled across Charles Lapham, who had
become separated from them. He had been without water for five days "and
after many efforts he got upon his feet and endeavored to walk. Seeing
him in so wretched a condition I could not but sympathize enough with
him in his torments to go back with him" toward water two miles away,
"which both my other companions refused to do. Accordingly they walked
forward while I went back a considerable distance with Lapham until, his
strength failing him, he suddenly fell on the ground, nor was he able
to rise again or even speak to me. Finding it vain to stay with him, I
covered him with sprays and leaves which I tore from an adjacent tree,
it being the last friendly office I could do him."
Eight living skeletons left of eighteen strong seamen tottered into
Muscat and were cared for by the English consul. Daniel Saunders worked
his passage to England, was picked up by a press-gang, escaped, and so
returned to Salem. It was the fate of Juba Hill, the black cook from
Boston, to be detained among the Arabs as a slave. It is worth noting
that a black sea-cook figured in many of these tales of daring and
disaster, and among them was the heroic and amazing figure of one Peter
Jackson who belonged in the brig Ceres. While running down the river
from Calcutta she was thrown on her beam ends and Peter, perhaps dumping
garbage over the rail, took a header. Among the things tossed to him as
he floated away was a sail-boom on which he was swiftly carried out of
sight by the turbid current. All on board concluded that Peter Jackson
had been eaten by sharks or crocodiles and it was so reported when they
arrived home. An administrator was appointed for his goods and chattels
and he was officially deceased in the eyes of the law. A year or so
later this unconquerable sea-cook appeared in the streets of Salem,
grinning a welcome to former shipmates who fled from him in terror as
a ghostly visitation. He had floated twelve hours on his sail-boom,
it seemed, fighting off the sharks with his feet; and finally drifting
ashore. "He had hard work to do away with the impressions of being
dead," runs the old account, "but succeeded and was allowed the rights
and privileges of the living."
The community of interests in these voyages of long ago included not
only the ship's company but also the townspeople, even the boys and
girls, who entrusted their little private speculations or "adventures"
to the captain. It was a custom which flourished well into the
nineteenth century. These memoranda are sprinkled through the account
books of the East Indiamen out of Salem and Boston. It might be Miss
Harriet Elkins who requested the master of the Messenger "please to
purchase at Calcutta two net beads with draperies; if at Batavia or any
spice market, nutmegs or mace; or if at Canton, two Canton shawls of the
enclosed colors at $5 per shawl. Enclosed is $10."
Again, it might be Mr. John R. Tucker who ventured in the same ship one
hundred Spanish dollars to be invested in coffee and sugar, or Captain
Nathaniel West who risked in the Astrea fifteen boxes of spermaceti
candles and a pipe of Teneriffe wine. It is interesting to discover what
was done with Mr. Tucker's hundred Spanish dollars, as invested for him
by the skipper of the Messenger at Batavia and duly accounted for.
Ten bags of coffee were bought for $83.30, the extra expenses of duty,
boat-hire, and sacking bringing the total outlay to $90.19. The coffee
was sold at Antwerp on the way home for $183.75, and Mr. Tucker's
handsome profit on the adventure was therefore $93.56, or more than one
hundred per cent.
It was all a grand adventure, in fact, and the word was aptly chosen to
fit this ocean trade. The merchant freighted his ship and sent her
out to vanish from his ken for months and months of waiting, with the
greater part of his savings, perhaps, in goods and specie beneath her
hatches. No cable messages kept him in touch with her nor were there
frequent letters from the master. Not until her signal was displayed by
the fluttering flags of the headland station at the harbor mouth could
he know whether he had gained or lost a fortune. The spirit of such
merchants was admirably typified in the last venture of Elias Hasket
Derby in 1798, when unofficial war existed between the United States and
France.
American ships were everywhere seeking refuge from the privateers under
the tricolor, which fairly ran amuck in the routes of trade. For this
reason it meant a rich reward to land a cargo abroad. The ship Mount
Vernon, commanded by Captain Elias Hasket Derby, Jr., was laden with
sugar and coffee for Mediterranean ports, and was prepared for trouble,
with twenty guns mounted and fifty men to handle them. A smart ship and
a powerful one, she raced across to Cape Saint Vincent in sixteen days,
which was clipper speed. She ran into a French fleet of sixty sail,
exchanged broadsides with the nearest, and showed her stern to the
others.
"We arrived at 12 o'clock [wrote Captain Derby from Gibraltar] popping
at Frenchmen all the forenoon. At 10 A.M. off Algeciras Point we were
seriously attacked by a large latineer who had on board more than one
hundred men. He came so near our broadside as to allow our six-pound
grape to do execution handsomely. We then bore away and gave him our
stern guns in a cool and deliberate manner, doing apparently great
execution. Our bars having cut his sails considerably, he was thrown
into confusion, struck both his ensign and his pennant. I was then
puzzled to know what to do with so many men; our ship was running large
with all her steering sails out, so that we could not immediately bring
her to the wind, and we were directly off Algeciras Point from whence I
had reason to fear she might receive assistance, and my port Gibraltar
in full view. These were circumstances that induced me to give up the
gratification of bringing him in. It was, however, a satisfaction to
flog the rascal in full view of the English fleet who were to leeward."