Charles D. Sigsbee, writer, artist, hydrographic expert, mathematician,
inventor, and incidentally the central figure, composed and dignified, in
the greatest marine tragedy of modern times, is the kind of a man most
people--men, women, and children,--like to see and know. His brow can
be stern, and no one knows that better than the people who have sailed
under him; but he loves peace better than war, and the twinkle behind his
glasses never quite dies out.
As a midshipman he was always the prime mover in any affair which could
contribute to the gayety of existence; was a better judge of people than
he was of test-tubes, and a practical joker of ability, which is saying
much. The fascination which the ocean holds for all boys of sound mind
gained an early sway over young Sigsbee. He received his appointment to
the Naval Academy just before the Civil War, in 1859.
He liked the practical work, but could never settle down to the
desperate grind of the academic course. He found himself more often
making caricatures of “Dom Roget,” the teacher of Spanish (a language
he has since mastered), than in poring over the verbs and adverbs in the
text-book. They were good caricatures, too, and when the other youngsters
in the section saw them there was merriment which poor Dom Roget could not
understand. But the professor solved the matter satisfactorily by marking
all the delinquents on a low scale of credit, and, to be certain of the
right culprit, Sigsbee lowest of all.
The young artist used to make pictures of everything and everybody he
saw, and write pieces about them,--sprightly literature which went from
one end of the Academy to the other. And so when the end of the year came
round he found that, instead of being enrolled on the academic scroll of
fame, he was relegated to the lower half of the class, which they called
the “wooden” half.
He went back into the next class,--which entered in 1860,--and with
the advantage of a year of experience he obtained a position in the new
class which he held until graduation time. He never quite got over his
propensities for making fun.
He began as a joke, and afterwards kept it up, an anonymous correspondence
with a member of his class. Sigsbee disguised his hand, and in the
guise of “Lily Gaines,” a very fascinating young woman of susceptible
tendencies, wrote to Midshipman Mullan in such endearing terms that
for three months that young gentleman was kept in a state of alternate
suspense and rapture. At last, in a burst of confidence some one told
Mullan of the deception, and the correspondence suddenly ceased.
But in spite of all this Midshipman Sigsbee went out into the world to
practise his profession in stirring times, and ever acquitted himself as
a valiant officer and accomplished gentleman. As the months rolled into
years the naval service could boast of no officer who studied harder or
who brought more steadfast qualities into his work.