OTHER TALES OF ADVENTURE
I
The Yarn of the _Essex_, Whaler
Among marine disasters there is none more extraordinary in character or
more appalling in consequence, than the loss of the whaleship _Essex_.
The _Essex_ was a well-found whaler of two hundred and thirty-eight
tons. James Pollard was her captain, with Owen Chase and Matthew Joy
as mates. Six of her complement of twenty were Negroes. Thoroughly
overhauled and provisioned for two and one-half years, on the 17th of
August, 1819, she took her departure from Nantucket. On the 17th of
January, 1820, she reached St. Mary's Island, off the coast of Chili,
near Conception, a noted whaling ground.
They cruised off these coasts for some time, being lucky enough to take
several large whales, and finally, the season being over, having about
one thousand barrels of oil in the hold, they struck boldly westward.
On the 16th of November, being a few minutes south of the line in Long.
118 degrees W., a school of sperm whales was sighted, and three boats
were lowered in chase.
Chase, the mate--the first mate is always the mate _par
excellence_--soon got fast to a huge bull-whale who, when he felt the
deadly harpoon in his vitals, swiftly turned and struck the whale-boat
a terrific blow with his tail, smashing it into kindling wood and
hurling the men in every direction. After that {232} splendid
exhibition of power, he got away scot-free save for the rankling iron
and the dangling line which he took with him. The boat's crew were
picked up, no one being much the worse for the encounter, strange to
say, and were brought back to the ship by the other boats.
On the 20th of November, being then just about 40 minutes south of the
equator, and in Long. 119 degrees W., at eight o'clock in the morning
the lookout at the masthead shouted the welcome signal:
"There she blows!"
It was evident that they were in the presence of a large school. The
ship was headed toward them, and when within half a mile the mainyard
was backed, and three boats, under the charge of the captain and the
first and second mates, respectively, were lowered. Their only other
boat was a spare one, lashed amidships on chocks.
Arriving at the spot where they had been sighted at the ship, the men
discovered that the whales had sounded and vanished. The boats,
thereupon, separated widely, and the men lay on their oars and waited.
Presently a great bull rose lazily, spouting in front of the mate's
boat, and lay idly wallowing in the tumbling sea. Approaching
cautiously, the harpooneer drove in the terrible weapon.
In his agony, the great cetacean, instead of sounding, threw himself
blindly toward the boat. So close were they, and so unexpected was the
whale's movement in spite of his vast bulk, that, although the order,
"Stern all!" had been promptly given, they were unable to win clear of
him. The tip of his massive tail, as he thrashed about in his rage,
struck the side of the light, clinker-built boat and smashed a hole in
it. Then the whale started to run, towing the boat, which {233}
immediately began to fill with water under the terrible drag to which
it was subjected. There was nothing to do but cut the line. Two or
three jackets were stuffed into the aperture, and while some bailed,
the others rowed back to the ship. The captain's and second mate's
boats, meanwhile, were seeking the school, which had risen and was
swimming away from the ship.
As soon as the wrecked boat was run up to the davits, the mate swung
the mainyard and got under way, following the other boats. He first
determined to break out the spare boat, but after investigating the
damaged boat, he concluded that he could save time by nailing a patch
of canvas over the broken place, which would serve temporarily to keep
out the water, in case they went in search of another whale in her.
While he was about this, an immense sperm-whale, about eighty-five feet
long, "breached"--that is, coming from a great depth, he shot out of
the water his whole length and then fell back with a tremendous
splash--about fifty fathoms from the ship. After he fell back, he
spouted three or four times, sounded, and once more appeared, this time
about a ship's length off the weather bow of the Essex. Evidently, it
was the whale they had just struck. He was angry, and he meant
business, for as soon as he came to the surface he started for the ship.
Under the light air the vessel was making about three knots. The whale
was going at the same speed. The mate saw at once that if he did not
change his course, the whale would strike his ship. Dropping the
hammer, he shouted to the boy at the helm to put it hard up, and
himself sprang across the deck to reënforce his order. The unwieldy
ship paid off slowly, {234} and before her head had been fairly turned
to leeward the whale deliberately rammed her right under the forechains.
The concussion was terrible. The ship came to a dead stop, as if she
had run upon a rock, while the whale bumped along under the keel. Some
of those aboard were thrown to the deck. The masts quivered and
buckled under the shock, but fortunately nothing was carried away. The
onset was so unexpected that the men were dazed for a moment. When the
mate recovered his wits, he immediately sounded the well, and found
that the ship was leaking badly. He then ordered the men to the pumps,
and set signals for the recall of the boats, each of which had got fast
to a whale.
[Illustration: "The Ship Came to a Dead Stop"]
In spite of all they could do, the ship began settling rapidly by the
head. She was badly stove in, and making water fast. While some of
the men toiled at the pumps, others cleared away the extra boat. There
was no longer time to repair the other. At this juncture one of the
men discovered the same whale about two hundred and fifty fathoms to
leeward. He was in a fit of convulsive rage terrible to look upon;
leaping, turning, writhing, threshing about in the water, beating it
with his mighty tail and great flukes, thundering upon it with all his
force, and all the while opening and shutting his enormous jaws,
"smiting them together," in the words of the mate, as if distracted
with wrath and fury.
There was no time to watch the whale in the exigency of their peril,
and observing him start out with great velocity to cross the bows of
the ship to leeward, the men turned their attention to the more serious
duty at the pumps and the boat. But a few moments had {235} elapsed,
when another man forward observed the whale again.
[Illustration: "The Killing of Alexander Hamilton by Aaron Burr, at
Weehawken, New Jersey, July 11, 1804"]
"Here he is!" he shouted. "He's making for us again."
The great cachalot was now directly ahead, about two hundred fathoms
away, and coming down upon them with twice his ordinary speed. The
surf flew in all directions about him. "His course was marked by a
white foam a rod in width which he made with the continual thrashing of
this tail." His huge head, boneless but almost as solid and as hard as
the inside of a horse's hoof, most admirably designed for a
battering-ram, was almost half out of the water. The mate made one
desperate attempt to get out of his way. Again the helm was put up and
the men ran to the braces, but the water-laden ship, already well down
by the head, and more sluggish than ever, had fallen off only one point
when the whale leaped upon her with demoniac energy, and--so it
appeared to the seamen--rammed her with maleficent passion.
This time he struck the ship just under the weather cathead. He was
going not less than six knots an hour to the ship's three, and the
force of the blow completely stove in the bows of the _Essex_. Those
on board could feel the huge bulk scraping along beneath the keel a
second time, and then, having done all the damage he could, he went
hurtling off to windward. He had exacted a complete revenge for their
attack upon him.
Working with the energy of despair, for the ship seemed literally
sinking under their feet, the men succeeded in clearing away the spare
boat and launching it. The steward saved two quadrants, two Bowditch's
"Practical Navigators," the captain's chest and that {236} of the first
mate, with two compasses which the mate had snatched from the binnacle.
They shoved off, but had scarcely made two lengths from the ship when
she fell over to windward and settled low in the water on her
beam-ends, a total wreck.
The captain and second mate, seeing the signal for the recall of the
boats flying, had cut loose from their whales and were rowing toward
the ship. They knew something had happened, but what it was, they
could not tell. The captain's boat was the first to reach the mate's.
He stopped close by, so completely overpowered that for a space he
could not utter a syllable.
"My God! Mr. Chase," he gasped out at last; "what is the matter?"
"We have been stove in by a whale, sir," said the mate, telling the
whole appalling story.
By the captain's direction, the boats rowed to the sinking ship, and
with their hatchets the men managed to cut away the masts, whereupon
she rose two-thirds of the way to an even keel. They scuttled the
deck--chopped holes through her, that is--and succeeded in coming at
some six hundred pounds of unspoiled hard bread, which they divided
among the three boats, and sufficient fresh water to give each boat
sixty-five gallons in small breakers--being all they dared to take in
each one. They also procured a musket, two pistols, some powder and
bullets, some tools and six live turtles. From the light spars of the
ship they rigged two masts for each boat and with the light canvas
provided each one with two spritsails and a jib. They also got some
light cedar planking used to repair the boats, and with it built the
gunwales up six inches all around.
{237}
On the 22nd of November, being then in 120 W. Long., and just north of
the equator, the officers took counsel together as to what to do. The
nearest lands were the Marquesas Islands, fifteen hundred miles away;
the Society Islands, twenty-four hundred miles away, and the Sandwich
Islands, three thousand miles away. They knew little about the first
two groups, save that they were inhabited by fierce and treacherous
savages from whom they had as much to fear as from the perils of the
sea. The Sandwich Islands were too far away, and they would be apt to
meet hurricanes, prevalent at that season, should they attempt to reach
them. After a long deliberation they decided to take advantage of the
southeast trades by sailing by the wind until they reached the
twenty-fifth parallel of south latitude. Then falling in with westerly
and variable winds, they could turn east and run for the coast of Chili
or Peru. This course involved the longest voyage, but it also promised
the greatest chance for success.
Sometimes they made good progress with favorable winds. At other times
they lay immobile in the blazing tropic sunlight which was almost
unbearable. Often they were buffeted by fierce squalls or wild storms,
especially as they left the equator. Only the important incidents of
their unparalleled voyage can be dwelt upon. Most of the events
mentioned happened in the mate's boat, but the experience of the boat
epitomes that of the others.
The mate's boat was the smallest. He was allotted five men. The other
two boats each contained one more man. The men were put on an
allowance of one sea-biscuit, weighing about one pound and a quarter,
and a pint of water a day. In the mate's boat the provisions were kept
in his chest, which he {238} locked. The men behaved in the most
exemplary manner. In only one instance did any one ever attempt to
steal provisions. They ran into a storm on the 24th, which wet some of
their biscuit, and as it was necessary to get rid of the damaged bread
as soon as possible, the daily allowance was taken from the spoiled
portion exclusively. The soaked biscuit were very salt and greatly
increased their thirst.
During the long and exhausting voyage, a plank started in the mate's
boat, and it was with difficulty that they heeled it over in the water,
at the risk of their lives, to get to the place and nail it up. One
night the captain's boat was attacked by a species of fish known as a
"killer" (Orca), and its bows were stove in. This also they managed to
patch up. On December 3rd, they ate the last of the spoiled salt
bread, and their relief when they began on the other was amazing.
Their thirst was terrible, especially as it became necessary to cut the
allowance of food and water in half. They tried from time to time to
catch rain water by means of the sails, but the canvas had been so
often drenched by the spray that the water they caught was as salt as
the sea.
One day they caught half a dozen flying fish, which they ate raw. Mr.
Chase remarks on the delicacy and daintiness of the mouthfuls which
these little fish afforded the starving mariners. They fished for
dolphins and porpoises, but they never caught any, perhaps because they
had nothing with which to bait the hooks. One day, seeking to
alleviate the pangs of thirst by wetting their bodies, three of the men
dropped into the water alongside and clung to the gunwale. One of them
discovered that the boat's bottom was covered with barnacles. They
were {239} ravenously devoured, but proved of little value as food.
The men in the water were so weak that had it not been for the efforts
of three who had remained in the boat, sceptical as to the utility of
the bath, they would never have been able to regain their positions.
During all these experiences, discipline was maintained--indeed, it was
maintained to the very last.
On the 15th of December, they reached Ducie Island, in Long. 124
degrees 40 minutes W., Lat. 24 degrees 40 minutes S., having come some
seventeen hundred miles in twenty-three days in these open boats. They
landed on the island and found a few shell-fish, birds, and a species
of pepper-grass, but no water. The famished men soon consumed
everything eatable they could come at on the island. They hunted high
and low, but it was not until the 22nd that they found a spring of
water. The island was almost desolate. Nothing was to be gained by
remaining there, so the majority concluded to sail for Easter Island,
some nine hundred miles southward. Three men decided to stay on the
island. They all spent a melancholy Christmas there, repairing their
boats and filling their water-breakers, and on the 27th the others took
their departure.
On the 14th of January, 1821, they found that they had been driven to
the south of Easter Island, and that it was not practicable to beat up
to it. They therefore determined to head for Juan Fernandez--Robinson
Crusoe's Island--some two thousand miles southeastward. On the 10th,
the second mate, Matthew Joy, died from exposure, and was buried the
next morning. On the 12th in the midst of a terrible storm, the boats
separated.
First we will follow the course of the mate's boat. {240} On the 20th,
Peterson, a black man, died and was buried. On the 8th of February,
Isaac Cole, a white seaman, died. The men on the boat were by this
time in a frightful condition, weak and emaciated to the last degree.
Their provisions were almost gone. But two biscuit to a man remained.
They were still over a thousand miles from land. They came to a
fearful determination. The body of Cole was not buried. They lived on
him from the 9th to the 14th. On the 15th and 16th, they consumed the
last vestige of their biscuit.
On the 17th, driving along at the mercy of wind and wave, for there was
not a man strong enough to do anything, they caught sight of the Island
of Massafuera. They were helpless to bring the boat near to the
Island. Whale-boats were steered by an oar. There was not a single
man able to lift an oar. In addition to starvation, thirst, weakness,
mental anguish, their legs began to swell with a sort of scurvy, giving
them excessive pain. Their condition can scarcely be imagined. The
breath of life was there, nothing more.
However, they had at last reached the end of their sufferings, for on
the morning of the 19th of February, 1821, in Lat. 35 degrees 45
minutes S., Long. 81 degrees 03 minutes W., the three surviving men
were picked up by the brig _Indian_, of London, Captain William
Crozier. On the 25th of February, they arrived at Valparaiso,
ninety-six days and nearly four thousand miles from the sinking of the
ship!
The other two boats managed to keep together for a little while after
they lost sight of the mate's boat. On the 14th of February,
provisions in the second mate's boat gave out entirely. On the 15th,
Lawson Thomas, a black man, died in that boat and was eaten. {241} The
captain's boat ran out of provisions on the 21st. On the 23rd Charles
Shorter, another Negro, died in the second mate's boat and was shared
between the two boats. On the 27th another black man died from the
same boat, furnishing a further meal for the survivors. On the 28th,
Samuel Reed, the last black man, died in the captain's boat and was
eaten like the rest. Singular that all the Negroes died first!
On the 29th, in a storm, these two boats separated. When they parted
the second mate's boat had three living white men in her. Nothing was
ever heard of her.
It might be inferred from the fact that the surviving men had had
something to eat, that they were in fair physical condition. That is
far from the truth. The men who had died were nothing but skin and
bone, and all that the survivors got from their ghastly meals was the
bare prolongation of a life which sank steadily to a lower and lower
ebb. We may not judge these people too harshly. Hunger and thirst
make men mad. They scarcely realized what they did.
There was worse to come. On the 1st of February, 1821, being without
food or drink of any sort, the four men in the captain's boat cast lots
as to which should die for the others. There is something significant
of a spirit of fair play and discipline, not without its admirable
quality, that under such circumstances, the weaker were not overpowered
by the stronger, but that each man had an equal chance for life. The
lot fell upon Owen Coffin,[1] the captain's nephew. He did not repine.
He expressed his willingness to abide {242} by the decision. No man
desired to be his executioner. They cast lots, as before, to determine
who should kill him, and the lot fell upon Charles Ramsdale. By him
Coffin was shot.
Thus they eked out a miserable existence until the 11th of February,
when Barzilla Ray died. On the 23rd of February, the two remaining
men, the captain and Ramsdale, just on the point of casting lots as to
which should have the last poor chance for life, were picked up by the
Nantucket whaler, _Dauphin_, Captain Zimri Coffin. They had almost
reached St. Mary's Island, ten miles from the coast of Chili. On the
17th of March, these two survivors joined the three from the mate's
boat in Valparaiso.
In the harbor was the United States frigate, _Constellation_, Captain
Charles G. Ridgeley, U. S. N. As soon as her commander heard of the
three left on Ducie Island, he arranged with Captain Thomas Raines, of
the British merchant ship, _Surrey_, to touch at the island on his
voyage to Australia and take off the men. Captain Raines found them
still alive, but reduced to the last gasp.
Thus of the twenty men, five reached Valparaiso; three were saved on
the island, three were lost in the second mate's boat, two died and
were buried; six died and were eaten, and one was shot and eaten.
So ends this strange tragedy of the sea.
[1] A tradition still current in Nantucket has it that the lot fell to
the captain, whereupon his nephew, already near death, feeling that he
could not survive the afternoon, offered and insisted upon taking his
uncle's place. I doubt this.
{245}
II
Some Famous American Duels
We are accustomed to regard our country as peculiarly law-abiding and
peaceful. This, in spite of the fact that three presidents have been
murdered within the last forty-five years, a record of assassination of
chief magistrates surpassed in no other land, not even in Russia. We
need not be surprised to learn that in no country was the serious duel,
the _combat à l'outrance_, so prevalent as in the United States at one
period of our national development. The code of honor, so-called, was
most profoundly respected by our ancestors; and the number of eminent
men who engaged in duelling--and of whom many lost their lives on the
field--is astonishing. Scarce any meeting was without its fatal
termination, perhaps owing to the fact that pistols and rifles were
generally used, and Americans are noted for their marksmanship.
There has been a revulsion of public sentiment which has brought about
the practical abolition of duelling in America. Although the practice
still obtains in continental European countries, it is here regarded as
immoral, and it is illegal as well. For one reason, in spite of the
apparent contradiction above, we are a law-abiding people. The genius
of the Anglo-Saxon--I, who am a Celt, admit it--is for the orderly
administration of the law, and much of the evil noted comes from the
introduction within our borders {246} of an imperfectly assimilated
foreign element which cherishes different views on the subject.
Another deterrent cause is a cool common sense which has recognized the
futility of trying to settle with blade or bullet differences which
belong to the courts; to this may be added a keen sense of humor which
has seen the absurdity and laughed the practice out of existence. The
freedom of the press has also been a contributing factor. Perhaps the
greatest deterrent, however, has been the development of a sense of
responsibility for life and its uses to a Higher Power.
As General Grant has put it, with the matchless simplicity of
greatness: "I do not believe I ever would have the courage to fight a
duel. If any man should wrong me to the extent of my being willing to
kill him, I should not be willing to give him the choice of weapons
with which it should be done, and of the time, place, and distance
separating us when I executed him. If I should do any other such a
wrong as to justify him in killing me, I would make any reasonable
atonement within my power, if convinced of the wrong done."
With this little preliminary, I shall briefly review a few of the most
noted duels in our history.
I. A Tragedy of Old New York
On Wednesday, the 11th of July, 1804, at seven o'clock on a bright,
sunny, summer morning, two men, pistol in hand, confronted each other
on a narrow shelf of rocky ground jutting out from the cliffs that
overlook the Hudson at Weehawken, on the Jersey shore. One was a
small, slender man, the other taller and more imposing in appearance.
Both had been soldiers; each faced the other in grave quietude, {247}
without giving outward evidence of any special emotion.
One was at that time the Vice-president of the United States; the other
had been Secretary of the Treasury, a general in command of the army,
and was the leading lawyer of his time. The Vice-president was
brilliantly clever; the ex-Secretary was a genius of the first order.
A political quarrel had brought them to this sorry position. Words
uttered in the heat of campaign, conveying not so much a personal
attack as a well-merited public censure, had been dwelt upon until the
Vice-president had challenged his political antagonist. The great
attorney did not believe in duels. He was a Christian, a man of
family; he had everything to lose and little to gain from this meeting.
Upon his great past he might hope to build an even greater future. He
was possessed of sufficient moral courage to refuse the meeting, but
had, nevertheless, deliberately accepted the other's challenge. It is
believed that he did so from a high and lofty motive; that he felt
persuaded of the instability of the Government which he had helped to
found, and that he realized that he possessed qualities which in such a
crisis would be of rare service to his adopted country. His future
usefulness, he thought--erroneously, doubtless, but he believed
it--would be impaired if any one could cast a doubt upon his courage by
pointing to the fact that he had refused a challenge.
Thirty months before, his son, a bright lad of eighteen, fresh from
Columbia College, had been shot dead in a duel which he had brought
upon himself by resenting a public criticism of his father. He had
fallen on that very spot where his father stood. I think that {248}
the tragedy must have been in the great statesman's mind that summer
morning.
The word was given. The two pistols were discharged. The
Vice-president, taking deliberate aim, fired first. The ex-Secretary
of the Treasury, who had previously stated to his second that he did
not intend to fire at his adversary, discharged his pistol in the air.
He had been hit by the bullet of his enemy, and did not know that as he
fell, by a convulsive movement, he had pulled the trigger of the weapon
in his hand.
That was the end--for he died the next day after lingering agonies--of
Alexander Hamilton, the greatest intellect and one of the greatest
personalities associated with the beginning of this Government. It was
also the end of his successful antagonist, Aaron Burr, for thereafter
he was a marked man, an avoided, a hated man. When abroad in 1808, he
gave Jeremy Bentham an account of the duel, and said that he "was sure
of being able to kill him." "And so," replied Bentham, "I thought it
little better than a murder." "Posterity," the historian adds, "will
not be likely to disturb the judgment of the British philosopher."
II. Andrew Jackson as a Duellist
Comparatively speaking, the next great duel on my list attracted little
more than local attention at the time. Years after, when one of them
who took part in it had risen to national fame, and was a candidate for
the Presidency, it was revived and made much of. On Friday, the 30th
of May, 1806, Charles Dickinson, a young man of brilliant abilities,
born in Maryland and residing in Tennessee, met Andrew Jackson, of the
{249} latter state, near the banks of a small stream called the Red
River, in a sequestered woodland glade in Logan County, Ky., a day's
ride from Nashville.
Unwittingly, and with entire innocence on the part of both parties,
Andrew Jackson had placed his wife in an equivocal position by marrying
her before a divorce had separated her from her husband[1]. Absolutely
no blame, except, perhaps, a censure for carelessness, attaches to
Jackson or his wife, and their whole life together was an example of
conjugal affection. However, his enemies--and he had many--found it
easy to strike at him through this unfortunate episode. There did not
live a more implacable and unforgiving man, when his wife was
slandered, than Andrew Jackson.
Dickinson, who was a political rival, spoke slurringly of Mrs. Jackson.
He apologized for it on the plea that he had been in his cups at the
time, but Jackson never forgave him. A political difference as an
ostensible cause of quarrel soon developed. Dickinson sent a challenge
which was gladly accepted. The resulting duel was probably the most
dramatic that ever occurred in the United States. Dickinson was a dead
shot. So, for that matter, was Jackson, but Dickinson was remarkable
for the quickness of his fire, while Jackson was slower. The
arrangements stipulated that the combatants should be placed at the
close distance of eight paces; that the word "fire!" should be given,
after which each was to fire one shot at will. Rather than be hurried
and have his aim disturbed, Jackson determined to sustain Dickinson's
fire and then return it at his leisure.
{250}
"What if he kills you or disables you?" asked his second.
"Sir," replied Jackson deliberately, "I shall kill him though he should
hit me in the brain!"
This is no gasconade or bravado, but simply an evidence of an intensity
of purpose, of which no man ever had a greater supply than Andrew
Jackson.
Dickinson fired instantly the word was given. A fleck of dust arose
from the loose coat which covered the spare form of the General, but he
stood apparently untouched. Dickinson, amazed, shrank back from the
peg indicating his position. Old General Overton, Jackson's second,
raised his pistol.
"Back to the mark, sir!" he thundered, as the unhappy young man
exclaimed in dismay.
"Great God! Have I missed him?"
Dickinson recovered himself immediately, stepped back to the mark, and
folded his arms to receive Jackson's fire. The hammer of the
Tennesseean's pistol stopped at half-cock. He deliberately re-cocked
his weapon, took careful aim again, and shot Dickinson through the
body. Seeing his enemy fall, Jackson turned and walked away. It was
not until he had gone one hundred yards from the duelling ground and
was hidden by the thick poplar trees, that his second noticed that one
of his shoes was filled with blood. Dickinson had hit the General in
the breast, inflicting a severe wound, and might have killed him had
not the bullet glanced on a rib. The iron-nerved Jackson declared that
his reason for concealing his wound was that he did not intend to give
Dickinson the satisfaction of knowing that he had hit his enemy before
he died.
Twenty-two years after, as Jackson stood by his dead wife's body, he
"lifted his cane as if appealing to {251} heaven, and by a look
commanding silence, said, slowly and painfully, and with a voice full
of bitter tears:
"'In the presence of this dear saint I can and do forgive all my
enemies. But those vile wretches who have slandered her must look to
God for mercy!'"
III. The Killing of Stephen Decatur
The idol of the American Navy was Stephen Decatur. James Barron, a
disgraced officer under suspension for his lack of conduct during the
famous affair between the British ship _Leopard_ and the American ship
_Chesapeake_, had taken no part in the war of 1812, for causes which
afforded him sufficient excuse; but subsequently he sought
re-employment in the navy. Decatur, who had been one of the court
which tried and sentenced him before the war, and who was now a naval
commissioner, opposed his plea. The situation brought forth a
challenge from Barron. Decatur was under no necessity of meeting it.
As commissioner, he was in effect, Barron's superior, and Washington
had laid down a rule for General Greene's guidance in a similar case
that a superior officer is not amenable to challenge from a junior
officer whom he has offended in course of duty. The principle is sound
common sense, as everybody, even duellists, will admit. Nevertheless,
such was the state of public opinion about questions of "honor" that
Decatur felt constrained to accept the challenge.
The two naval officers met on the duelling ground at Bladensburg, "the
cockpit of Washington duellists," on the 22nd of March, 1820. Barron
was near-sighted, and insisted upon a closer distance than the usual
ten paces. They were placed a scant eight {252} paces apart. Decatur,
who was a dead shot, did not wish to kill Barron; at the same time he
did not deem it safe to stand his adversary's fire without return.
Therefore he stated to his second that he would shoot Barron in the
hip. Before the duel, Barron expressed the hope that if they met in
another world they might be better friends. Decatur replied gravely
that he had never been Barron's enemy. Under such circumstances it
would appear that the quarrel might have been composed without the
shedding of blood.
At the word "two" the men fired together, Decatur's bullet struck
Barron in the hip, inflicting a severe but not mortal wound. At the
same instant Barron's bullet passed through Decatur's abdomen,
inflicting a wound necessarily fatal then, probably so, even now. As
he lay on the ground the great commodore said faintly:
"I am mortally wounded--at least, I believe so--and I wish I had fallen
in defence of my country."
He died at ten o'clock that night, regretted by all who love brave men
the world over.
IV. An Episode in the Life of James Bowie
Of a different character, but equally interesting, was an encounter in
August, 1829, which has become famous because of one of the weapons
used with deadly effect. On an island in the Mississippi River,
opposite Natchez, which was nothing but a sand bar with some
undergrowth upon it, a party of men met to witness and second a duel
between a Dr. Maddox and one Samuel Wells. The spectators were all
interested in one or the other combatant, and had taken part in a
neighborhood feud which arose out of a speculation in land.
{253}
The two principals exchanged two shots without injury, whereupon the
seconds and spectators, unable to restrain their animosity, started a
free fight. Judge Crane, of Mississippi, was the leader on one side;
James Bowie, of Georgia, the principal man on the other. Crane was
armed with a brace of duelling pistols; Bowie had nothing but a knife.
Bowie and a friend of his, named Currey, attacked Crane after the
Maddox-Wells duel had been abandoned. Crane was wounded in the left
arm by a shot from Currey; he thereupon shot Currey dead and with his
remaining pistol he wounded Bowie in the groin. Nevertheless, Bowie
resolutely came on. Crane struck him over the head with his pistol,
felling him to the ground. Undaunted, Bowie scrambled to his feet and
made again for Crane.
Major Wright, a friend of Crane's, now interposed, and thrust at Bowie
with a sword cane. The blade tore open Bowie's breast. The terrible
Georgian, twice wounded though he was, caught Wright by the neck-cloth,
grappled with him, and threw him to the ground, falling upon him.
"Now, Major, you die," said Bowie coolly, wrenching his arm free and
plunging his knife into Wright's heart.
The knife had been made by Bowie's brother Rezin out of a blacksmith's
rasp. It was shaped in accordance with his own ideas, and James Bowie
used it with terrible effect. It was the first of the celebrated
"Bowie knives" which played so great a part in frontier quarrels.
In the general _mêlée_ which followed the death of Wright and Currey,
six other men were killed and fifteen severely wounded. Bowie was a
noted duellist {254} in his day, and died heroically in the famous
siege of the Alamo[2].
On one occasion he was a passenger on a Mississippi steamboat with a
young man and his bride. The young man had collected a large sum of
money for friends and employers, which he gambled away on the boat.
Bowie kept him from suicide, took his place at the gaming-table,
exposed the cheating of the gamblers, was challenged by one of them,
fought him on the hurricane deck of the steamer, shot him into the
river, and restored the money to the distracted husband.
Brief reference may be made to an affair between Major Thomas Biddle,
of the United States Army, and Congressman Spencer Pettis, of Missouri,
on August 27, 1831. The cause of the duel was a political difficulty.
The two men stood five feet apart, their pistols overlapping. Both
were mortally wounded. This was nothing less than a double murder, and
shows to what length men will go under the heat of passion or the
stimulus of a false code of honor.
V. A Famous Congressional Duel
On February the 24, 1838, at a quarter after three o'clock on the
Marlborough Road in Maryland, just outside the District of Columbia,
two members of Congress, Jonathan Cilley of Maine, and William J.
Graves of Kentucky, exchanged shots with rifles at a distance of ninety
yards three times in succession. At the third exchange, Cilley was
shot and died in three minutes. Of all the causes for deadly
encounters, that which brought these two men opposite each other was
the {255} most foolish. Cilley, on the floor of the House, had
reflected upon the character of a newspaper editor in the discussion of
charges which had been made against certain Congressmen with whom he
had no personal connection. The newspaper editor, whose subsequent
conduct showed that he fully merited even more severe strictures than
Cilley had passed upon him, sent a challenge to the gentleman from
Maine by the hand of Congressman Graves.
Cilley took the justifiable position that his language had been proper
and privileged, and that he did not propose to accept a challenge or
discuss the matter with any one. He assured Graves that this
declination to pursue the matter further was not to be construed as a
reflection upon the bearer of the challenge. There was no quarrel
whatever between Cilley and Graves. Nevertheless, Graves took the
ground that the refusal to accept the challenge which he had brought
was a reflection upon him. He thereupon challenged Cilley on his own
behalf. Efforts were made to compose the quarrel but Cilley was not
willing to go further than he had already done. He positively refused
to discuss the editor in question. He would only repeat that he
intended no reflection upon Mr. Graves, whom he respected and esteemed,
by refusing the editor's challenge. This was not satisfactory to
Graves, and the duel was, accordingly, arranged.
During its course, after each fruitless exchange of shots, efforts were
made to end the affair, but Graves refused to accept Cilley's
statement, again repeated, that he had no reflection to cast upon Mr.
Graves, and Cilley refused to abandon the position he had taken with
regard to the editor. Never did a more foolish punctilio bring about
so terrible a result. Aside from {256} accepting the challenge, Cilley
had pursued a dignified and proper course. Graves, to put it mildly,
had played the fool. He was practically a disgraced man thereafter.
The Congressional committee which investigated the matter censured him
in the severest terms, and recommended his expulsion from Congress.
Perhaps the public indignation excited by this wretched affair did more
to discredit duelling than any previous event.
VI. The Last Notable Duel in America
The last notable American duel was that between United States Senator
Broderick, of California, and ex-Chief Justice Terry, of the Supreme
Court of the same state, on September 13, 1859. This, too, arose from
political differences. Broderick and Terry belonged to different
factions of the growing Republican party, each struggling for control
in California. Broderick was strongly anti-slavery, and his opponents
wanted him removed. Terry was defeated in his campaign for reflection
largely, as he supposed, through Broderick's efforts. The two men had
been good friends previously. Broderick had stood by Terry on one
occasion when everybody else had been against him and his situation had
been critical. In his anger over his defeat, Terry accused Broderick
of disgraceful and underhand practices. Broderick was provoked into
the following rejoinder:
"I see that Terry has been abusing me. I now take back the remark I
once made that he is the only honest judge in the Supreme Court. I was
his friend when he was in need of friends, for which I am sorry. Had
the vigilance committee disposed of him as they did of others, they
would have done a righteous act."
{257}
He alluded to Terry's arrest by the Vigilantes in August, 1856, charged
with cutting a man named Sterling A. Hopkins, in the attempt to free
from arrest one Reuben Maloney. Had Hopkins died, Terry would probably
have been hung. As it was, it took the strongest influence--Masonic,
press and other--to save him from banishment.
Terry, after some acrimonious correspondence, challenged Broderick. A
meeting on the 12th of September was stopped by the Chief of Police of
San Francisco. The police magistrate before whom the duellists were
arraigned, discharged them on the ground that there had been no actual
misdemeanor.
Next day the principals and the seconds met again at the foot of Lake
Merced, about twelve miles from San Francisco. About eighty
spectators, friends of the participants, were present. The distance
was the usual ten paces. Both pistols had hair triggers, but
Broderick's was more delicately set than Terry's, so much so that a jar
might discharge it. Broderick's seconds were inexperienced men, and no
one realized the importance of this difference.
At the word both raised their weapons. Broderick's was discharged
before he had elevated it sufficiently, and his bullet struck the
ground about six feet in front of Terry. Terry was surer and shot his
antagonist through the lung. Terry, who acted throughout with
cold-blooded indifference, watched his antagonist fall and remarked
that the wound was not mortal, as he had struck two inches to the
right. He then left the field.
When Broderick fell, one of the bystanders, named Davis, shouted out:
"That is murder, by God!"
{258}
Drawing his own weapon, he started for Terry, exclaiming: "I am
Broderick's friend. I'm not going to see him killed in that way. If
you are men you will join me in avenging his death!"
Some cool heads in the multitude restrained him, pointing out that if
he attacked Terry there would be a general _mêlée_, from which few on
the ground would escape, and they finally succeeded in getting him away.
Broderick lingered for three days.
"They have killed me," he said, "because I was opposed to slavery and a
corrupt administration."
Colonel Edward D. Baker, who was killed at Ball's Bluff in the Civil
War, received his friend's last words.
"I tried to stand firm when I was wounded, but I could not. The blow
blinded me."
Terry was tried for murder, but by influence and other means he was
never convicted, and escaped all punishment save that inflicted by his
conscience.
In judging these affairs, it must be remembered that many of the most
prominent Americans of the past--Benton, Clay, Calhoun and Houston
among them--fought duels. And it is well known that only Abraham
Lincoln's wit and humor saved him from a deadly encounter with General
James Shields, whose challenge he accepted.
[1] The reader may consult my book "The True Andrew Jackson" for a
detailed account of this interesting transaction.
[2] See my "Border Fights and Fighters" in this series for an account
of this dramatic and heroic adventure.
{261}
III
The Cruise of the _Tonquin_
A Forgotten Tragedy in Early American History
On the morning of the 8th of September, 1810, two ships were running
side by side before a fresh southwesterly breeze off Sandy Hook, New
York. One was the great United States ship _Constitution_, Captain
Isaac Hull; the other was the little full-rigged ship _Tonquin_, of two
hundred and ninety tons burden.
This little vessel was captained by one Jonathan Thorn, who was at the
time a lieutenant in the United States Navy. He had obtained leave of
absence for the purpose of making a cruise in the _Tonquin_. Thorn was
a thoroughly experienced seaman and a skilled and practised navigator.
He was a man of magnificent physique, with a fine war record.
He was with Decatur in the _Intrepid_ when he put the captured
_Philadelphia_ to flames six years before. In the subsequent desperate
gunboat fighting at Tripoli, Midshipman Thorn had borne so
distinguished a part that he received special commendation by Commodore
Preble. As to his other qualities, Washington Irving, who knew him
from infancy, wrote of him to the last with a warm affection which
nothing could diminish.
Mr. John Jacob Astor, merchant, fur-trader, financier, had pitched upon
Thorn as the best man to take {262} the ship bearing the first
representatives of the Pacific Fur Company around the Horn and up to
the far northwestern American coast to make the first settlement at
Astoria, whose history is so interwoven with that of our country.
Mr. Astor already monopolized the fur trade of the Far West south of
the Great Lakes. His present plan was to form a fur company and
establish a series of trading posts along the Missouri River, reaching
overland across the Rocky Mountains until they joined the posts on the
Pacific. The place he selected for his Pacific depot was the mouth of
the Columbia River.
The principal rival of the Astor Fur Trading Company was the Northwest
Company. Astor tried to persuade the company to join him in his new
venture. When it refused to do so as an organization, he approached
individual employees of the Company, and in 1810 formed the Pacific Fur
Company. Among the incorporators were four Scottish Canadians, Messrs.
McKay, McDougall, David Stuart, and Robert, his nephew. There were
several other partners, including Wilson Price Hunt, of New Jersey.
It was planned that Hunt should lead an overland expedition from St.
Louis, while the four Scotsmen mentioned went around the Horn, and that
they should meet at the mouth of the Columbia River, where the trading
post was to be situated. Most of the employees of the company were
Canadians who had enjoyed large experience in the fur business. Among
these were included a large number of French _voyageurs_.
Thus the _Tonquin_, owned by a German, captained by an American, with a
crew including Swedes, French, English, Negroes, and Americans,
carrying out a party of Scottish and French Canadians and one Russian,
{263} started on her memorable voyage to establish a trading post under
the American flag! The crew of the _Tonquin_ numbered twenty-three
men. The number of passengers was thirty-three.
The story of her voyage is related in the letters of the captain to Mr.
Astor, and more fully in a quaint and curious French journal published
at Montreal in 1819, by M. Gabriel Franchere, one of the Canadian
clerks who made the voyage.
The _Tonquin_ was pierced for twenty guns, only ten small ones being
mounted. The other ports were provided with imposing wooden dummies.
She had a high poop and a topgallant forecastle. The four partners,
with James Lewis, acting captain's clerk, and one other, with the two
mates, slept in the cabin or wardroom below the poop. Forward of this
main cabin was a large room extending across the ship, called the
steerage, in which the rest of the clerks, the mechanics, and the
Canadian boatmen were quartered.
Thorn seems to have felt to the full all the early naval officer's
utterly unmerited contempt for the merchant service. It is also the
habit of the Anglo-Saxon to hold the French in slight esteem on the
sea. The Canadians were wretched sailors, and Thorn despised them.
Thorn also cherished a natural hatred against the English, who were
carrying things with a high hand on our coast. He began the voyage
with a violent prejudice against the four partners on his ship.
Indeed, the _Constitution_ had convoyed the _Tonquin_ to sea because it
was rumored that a British brig-o'-war intended to swoop down upon her
and take off the English subjects on board. It was quite evident that
war would shortly break out between England {264} and the United
States, and the Scottish partners had surreptitiously consulted the
English consul as to what they should do if hostilities began. They
were informed that in that case they would be treated as British
subjects--a fine situation for an American expedition!
With such a spirit in the captain, and such a feeling on the part of
the passengers, the relations between them were bound to become
strained. Hostilities began at once. The first night out Thorn
ordered all lights out at eight bells. This in spite of all the
remonstrances of the four partners, who, as representing Mr. Astor,
considered themselves, properly enough, as owners of the ship. These
gentlemen did not wish to retire at so early an hour, nor did they
desire to spend the intervening time in darkness. They remonstrated
with Thorn, and he told them, in the terse, blunt language of a seaman,
to keep quiet or he would put them in irons. In case he attempted
that, they threatened to resort to firearms for protection. Finally,
however, the captain allowed them a little longer use of their lights.
Thus was inaugurated a long, disgraceful wrangle that did not cease
while life lasted.
There was doubtless much fault on both sides, but, in spite of the
brilliant advocate who has pleaded Thorn's cause, I cannot but admit
that he was decidedly the more to blame. He carried things with a high
hand, indeed, treating the partners as he might a graceless lot of
undisciplined midshipmen.
A voyage around the Horn in those days was no slight matter. The
_Tonquin_ was a remarkably good sailer, but it was not until the 5th of
October that they sighted the Cape Verde Islands. There they struck
the Trades, and went booming down the African coast {265} at a great
rate. There, also, they were pursued by a large man-o'-war brig. On
the third day she drew so near that Thorn prepared for action,
whereupon the brig sheered off, and left them.
On the 11th of October they ran into a terrific storm, which prevailed
until the 21st, when they found themselves off the River Plate. While
the storm was at its height the man at the wheel was thrown across the
deck by a sudden jump of the wheel and severely injured, breaking three
of his ribs and fracturing his collar-bone[1]. Thorn's seamanship
during the trying period was first class. After the gale blew itself
out, a fresh breeze succeeded, which enabled them rapidly to run down
their southing. The water supply had grown very low, and it was
determined to run in to the Falkland Islands to fill the casks.
They made a landfall on the 3rd of December, got on shore on one of the
smaller islets on the 4th, found no water, and were driven to sea to
seek an offing on the 5th by a gale. On the 6th they landed at Point
Egmont on the West Falkland, and found a fine spring of fresh water.
As it would take several days to fill the casks, all the passengers
went ashore and camped on the deserted island. They amused themselves
by fishing, shooting and rambling about. On the 11th of the month the
captain, having filled his water-casks, signalled for every man to come
aboard, by firing a gun. Eight passengers, including McDougall and
Stuart, happened to be on shore at the time. They had wandered around
to the other side of the island, and did not hear the report of the
gun. Thorn, after waiting a short time, weighed anchor and filled away
from {266} the island, firmly resolved to leave the men ashore,
marooned and destitute of supplies on that desolate and uninhabited
spot, where they must inevitably perish of starvation and exposure.
Some of the abandoned passengers happened to see the _Tonquin_ fast
leaving the island. In great alarm they hastily summoned all the other
wanderers, and the eight got into a small boat twenty feet long, which
had been left with them, and rowed after the rapidly receding ship.
They had not the slightest hope of catching her unless she waited for
them, but they pulled for her with furious energy, nevertheless. As
the _Tonquin_ got from under the lee of the land the breeze freshened
and she drew away from them with every passing moment in spite of their
manful work at the oars. When they had about given up in exhaustion
and despair, the ship suddenly changed her course and stood toward them.
Franchere says that it was because young Stuart put a pistol to the
captain's head and swore that he would blow out his brains unless he
went back for the boat. The captain's account to Mr. Astor is that a
sudden shift of wind compelled him to come about and this gave the boat
an opportunity to overhaul him. There was a scene of wild
recrimination when the boat reached the ship, shortly after six bells
(3 P. M.), but it did not seem to bother Thorn in the least.
On the 18th of December, they were south and east of Cape Horn. The
weather was mild and pleasant, but before they could make headway
enough against the swift easterly current to round that most dangerous
point it came on to blow a regular Cape Horn gale. After seven days of
hard beating they celebrated Christmas under pleasanter auspices in the
southern Pacific.
{267}
Their run northward was uneventful, and on the 11th of February, 1811,
they sighted the volcano of Mauna Loa in the Sandwich Islands. They
landed on the 12th and spent sixteen days among the different islands,
visiting, filling the water-casks, and buying fresh meat, vegetables,
and live-stock from Kamehameha I.
While Captain Thorn was hated by the passengers, he was not loved by
his officers. Singularly enough, he seems to have been well liked by
the crew, although there were some exceptions even there. Anderson,
the boatswain, left the ship at Hawaii. There had been difficulties
between them, and the captain was glad to see him go. A sample of
Thorn's method of administering discipline is interesting.
The day they sailed a seaman named Aymes strayed from the boat party,
and was left behind when the boat returned to the ship. In great
terror Aymes had some natives bring him aboard in a canoe. A longboat
loaded with fodder for the live-stock lay alongside. As Aymes
clambered into the long-boat, the captain, who was furiously angry,
sprang down into the boat, seized Aymes with one hand and a stout piece
of sugar-cane with the other. With this formidable weapon the
unfortunate sailor was beaten until he screamed for mercy. After
wearing out the sugarcane upon him, with the remark that if he ever saw
him on the sloop again, he would kill him, the captain pitched him into
the water. Aymes, who was a good swimmer, made the best of his way to
the shore, and stayed there with Anderson. Twenty-four natives were
shipped at Hawaii, twelve for the crew and twelve for the new
settlement.
On the 16th of March they ran into another storm, of such violence that
they were forced to strike their {268} topgallant masts and scud under
double-reefed foresail. As they were nearing the coast, the ship was
hove to at night. Early on the morning of the 22nd of March, they
sighted land, one hundred and ninety-five days and twenty thousand
miles from Sandy Hook. The weather was still very severe, the wind
blowing in heavy squalls and the sea running high, and the captain did
not think it prudent to approach the shore nearer than three miles.
His navigation had been excellent, however, for before them lay the
mouth of the Columbia River, the object of their long voyage. They
could see the waves breaking over the bar with tremendous force as they
beat to and fro along the coast.
Thorn, ignorant of the channel, did not dare take the ship in under
such conditions. He therefore ordered First-Mate Ebenezer Fox to take
Sailmaker Martin and three Canadians into a boat and find the channel.
It was a hazardous undertaking, and the despatch of the small boat
under such circumstances was a serious error in judgment.
There had been bad blood between the captain and the mate, and Fox did
not wish to go. If he had to go, he begged that his boat might be
manned with seamen instead of Canadians. The captain refused to change
his orders. Fox appealed to the partners. They remonstrated with the
captain, but they could not alter his determination. The boat was
pulled away and was lost to sight in the breakers. Neither the boat
nor any member of the crew was ever seen or heard of again. The boat
was ill-found and ill-manned. She was undoubtedly caught in the
breakers and foundered.
The next day the wind increased in violence, and they cruised off the
shore looking for the boat. Every one on board, including the captain,
stern and {269} ruthless though he was, was very much disturbed at her
loss.
On the 24th the weather moderated somewhat, and running nearer to the
shore, they anchored just outside Cape Disappointment, near the north
shore of the river mouth. The wind subsiding, Mumford, the second
mate, with another boat, was sent to search for the passage, but
finding the surf still too heavy, he returned about noon, after a
terrible struggle with the breakers.
In the afternoon McKay and Stuart offered to take a boat and try to get
ashore to seek for Fox and the missing men. They made the endeavor,
but did not succeed in passing the breakers, and returned to the ship.
Later in the afternoon a gentle breeze sprang up from the west, blowing
into the mouth of the river, and Thorn determined to try and cross the
bar. He weighed anchor, therefore, and bore down under easy sail for
the entrance of the river. As he came close to the breakers he hove to
and sent out another boat, in charge of Aitkin, a Scottish seaman,
accompanied by Sailmaker Coles, Armorer Weeks and two Sandwich
Islanders.
The breakers were not quite so rough as they had been, and Aitkin
proceeded cautiously some distance in front of the ship, making
soundings and finding no depth less than four fathoms. In obedience to
his signals, the ship came bowling on, and the fitful breeze suddenly
freshening, she ran through the breakers, passing Aitkin's boat to
starboard in pistol-shot distance. Signals were made for the boat to
return, but the tide had turned, and the strong ebb, with the current
of the river, bore the boat into the breakers in spite of all her crew
could do. While they were watching the boat, over which the waves were
seen breaking furiously, {270} the ship, the wind failing, was driven
seaward by the tide, and struck six or seven times on the bar. The
breakers, running frightfully high, swept over her decks again and
again. Nothing could be done for the boat by the ship, their own
condition being so serious as to demand all their efforts.
Thorn at last extricated the _Tonquin_ from her predicament. The wind
favored her again, and she got over the bar and through the breakers,
anchoring at nightfall in seven fathoms of water. The night was very
dark. The ebb and current threatened to sweep the ship on the shore.
Both anchors were carried out. Still the holding was inadequate and
the ship's position grew more dangerous. They passed some anxious
hours until the turn of the tide, when in spite of the fact that it was
pitch dark, they weighed anchor, made sail, and succeeded in finding a
safe haven under the lee of Cape Disappointment, in a place called
Baker's Bay. The next day the captain and some of the partners landed
in the morning to see if they could find the missing party. As they
were wandering aimlessly upon the shore, they came across Weeks,
exhausted and almost naked.
He had a sad story to tell. The boat had capsized in the breakers and
his two white companions had been drowned. He and the Kanakas had
succeeded in righting the boat and clambering into her. By some
fortunate chance they were tossed outside the breakers and into calmer
waters. The boat was bailed out, and the next morning Weeks sculled
her ashore with the one remaining oar. One of the Sandwich Islanders
was so severely injured that he died in the boat, and the other was
probably dying from exposure. The relief party prosecuted their {271}
search for the Kanaka and found him the next day almost dead.
The loss of these eight men and these two boats was a serious blow to
so small an expedition, but there was nothing to be done about it, and
the work of selecting a permanent location for the trading-post on the
south shore, unloading the cargo, and building the fort was rapidly
carried on, although not without the usual quarrels between captain and
men. After landing the company, Thorn had been directed by Mr. Astor
to take the _Tonquin_ up the coast to gather a load of furs. He was to
touch at the settlement which they had named Astoria, on his way back,
and take on board what furs the partners had been able to procure and
bring them back to New York. Thorn was anxious to get away, and on the
1st of June, having finished the unloading of the ship, and having seen
the buildings approaching completion, accompanied by McKay as
supercargo, and James Lewis of New York, as clerk, he started on his
trading voyage.
That was the last that anybody ever saw of Thorn or the _Tonquin_ and
her men. Several months after her departure a Chehalis Indian, named
Lamanse, wandered into Astoria with a terrible story of an appalling
disaster. The _Tonquin_ made her way up the coast, Thorn buying furs
as he could. At one of her stops at Gray's Harbour, this Indian was
engaged as interpreter. About the middle of June, the _Tonquin_
entered Nootka Sound, an ocean estuary between Nootka and Vancouver
Islands, about midway of the western shore of the latter. There she
anchored before a large Nootka Indian village, called Newity.
The place was even then not unknown to history. The Nootkas were a
fierce and savage race. A few {272} years before the advent of the
_Tonquin_, the American ship _Boston_, Captain Slater, was trading in
Nootka Sound. The captain had grievously insulted a native chieftain.
The ship had been surprised, every member of her crew except two
murdered, and the ship burned. These two had been wounded and
captured, but when it was learned that one was a gunsmith and armorer,
their lives were preserved and they had been made slaves, escaping long
after.
Every ship which entered the Sound thereafter did so with the full
knowledge of the savage and treacherous nature of the Indians, and the
trading was carried on with the utmost circumspection. There had been
no violent catastrophes for several years, until another ship _Boston_
made further trouble. Her captain had shipped twelve Indian hunters,
promising to return them to their people on Nootka Sound when he was
finished with them. Instead of bringing them back, he marooned them on
a barren coast hundreds of miles away from their destination. When
they heard of his cruel action, the Nootkas swore to be revenged on the
next ship that entered the Sound. The next ship happened to be the
ill-fated _Tonquin_.
Now, no Indians that ever lived could seize a ship like the _Tonquin_
if proper precautions were taken by her crew. Mr. Astor, knowing the
record of the bleak north-western shores, had especially cautioned
Thorn that constant watchfulness should be exercised in trading. Thorn
felt the serenest contempt for the Indians, and took no precautions of
any sort. Indeed, the demeanor of the savages lulled even the
suspicions of McKay, who had had a wide experience with the aborigines.
McKay even went ashore at the invitation of one of the chiefs and spent
the first night of his arrival in his lodge.
{273}
The next day the Indians came aboard to trade. They asked exorbitant
prices for their skins, and conducted themselves in a very obnoxious
way. Thorn was not a trader; he was a sailor. He offered them what he
considered a fair price, and if that was not satisfactory, why, the
vendor could go hang, for all he cared. One old chief was especially
persistent and offensive in his bargaining for a high price. He
followed Thorn back and forth on the deck, thrusting a roll of skins in
front of him, until the irascible captain at last lost the little
control of his temper he ordinarily retained. He suddenly grabbed the
skins and shoved them--not to say rubbed them--in the face of the
indignant and astonished Indian. Then he took the Indian by the back
of the neck and summarily rushed him along the deck to the gangway. It
is more than likely that he assisted him in his progress by kicking him
overboard.
The other Indians left the ship immediately. The interpreter warned
McKay that they would never forgive such an insult, and McKay
remonstrated with the captain. His remonstrances were laughed to
scorn, as usual. Not a precaution was taken. Ships trading in these
latitudes usually triced up boarding nettings fore and aft to prevent
savages from swarming over the bulwarks without warning. Thorn refused
to order these nettings put in position. McKay did not think it
prudent to go on shore that night.
Early the next morning a large canoe containing some twenty Indians,
all unarmed, came off to the ship. Each Indian held up a bundle of
furs and signified his desire to trade. Thorn in great triumph
admitted them to the ship, the furs were brought on deck, and
bargaining began. There was no evidence of {274} resentment about any
of them. Their demeanor was entirely different from what it had been
the night before. On this occasion the Indians were willing to let the
white men put any value they pleased on the furs.
While they were busily buying and selling, another party of unarmed
Indians made their appearance alongside. They were succeeded by a
second, a third, a fourth, and others, all of whom were welcome to the
ship. Soon the deck was crowded with Indians eager to barter. Most of
them wanted hunting or butcher knives in return, and by this means, no
one suspecting anything, nearly every one of the savages became
possessed of a formidable weapon for close-quarter fighting. McKay and
Thorn appeared to have gone below temporarily, perhaps to break out
more goods to exchange for furs, when the Indian interpreter became
convinced that treachery was intended. Whoever was in charge at the
time--perhaps Lewis--at the interpreter's instance [Transcriber's note:
insistence?], sent word to the captain, and he and McKay came on deck
at once.
The ship was filled with a mob of Indians, whose gentle and pleasant
aspect had given way to one of scowling displeasure and menace. The
situation was serious. McKay suggested that the ship be got under way
at once. The captain for the first time agreed with him. Orders were
given to man the capstan, and five of the seamen were sent aloft to
loose sail. The wind was strong, and happened to be blowing in the
right direction. With singular fatuity none of the officers or seamen
were armed, although the ship was well provided with weapons. As the
cable slowly came in through the hawse-pipe, and the loosed sails fell
from the yards, Thorn, through the interpreter, told the Indians that
he was about to sail away, and {275} peremptorily directed them to
leave the ship. Indeed, the movements of the sailors made his
intentions plain.
It was too late. There was a sharp cry--a signal--from the chief, and
without a moment's hesitation the Indians fell upon the unprepared and
astonished crew. Some of the savages hauled out war-clubs and
tomahawks which had been concealed in bundles of fur; others made use
of the knives just purchased. Lewis was the first man struck down. He
was mortally wounded, but succeeded in the subsequent confusion, in
gaining the steerage. McKay was seriously injured and thrown
overboard. In the boats surrounding the ships were a number of women,
and they despatched the unfortunate partner with their paddles. The
captain whipped out a sailor's sheath knife which he wore, and made a
desperate fight for his life. The sailors also drew their knives or
caught up belaying-pins or handspikes, and laid about them with the
energy of despair, but to no avail. They were cut down in spite of
every endeavor. The captain killed several of the Indians with his
knife, and was the last to fall, overborne in the end by numbers. He
was hacked and stabbed to death on his own deck.
The five sailors aloft had been terrified and helpless witnesses to the
massacre beneath them. That they must do something for their own lives
they now realized. Making their way aft by means of the rigging, they
swung themselves to the deck and dashed for the steerage hatch. The
attention of the savages had been diverted from them by the mêlée on
deck. The five men gained the hatch, the last man down, Weeks the
armorer being stabbed and mortally wounded, although he, too, gained
the hatch. At this juncture the Indian interpreter, who had not been
molested, sprang {276} overboard, and was taken into one of the canoes
and concealed by the women. His life was spared, and he was afterward
made a slave, and eventually escaped. The four unhurt men who had
gained the steerage, broke through into the cabin, armed themselves,
and made their way to the captain's cabin, whence they opened fire upon
the savages on deck. The Indians fled instantly, leaving many of their
dead aboard the ship. The decks of the _Tonquin_ had been turned into
shambles.
The next morning the natives saw a boat with four sailors in it pulling
away from the ship. They cautiously approached the _Tonquin_
thereupon, and discovered one man, evidently badly wounded, leaning
over the rail. When they gained the deck, he was no longer visible.
No immediate search appears to have been made for him, but finding the
ship practically deserted, a great number of Indians came off in their
canoes and got aboard. They were making preparations to search and
pillage the ship, when there was a terrific explosion, and the
ill-fated _Tonquin_ blew up with all on board. In her ending she
carried sudden destruction to over two hundred of the Indians.
It is surmised that the four unwounded men left on the ship realized
their inability to carry the _Tonquin_ to sea, and determined to take
to the boat in the hope of reaching Astoria by coasting down the shore.
It is possible that they may have laid a train to the magazine--the
_Tonquin_ carried four and a half tons of powder--but it is generally
believed, as a more probable story, on account of the time that elapsed
between their departure and the blowing up of the ship, that Lewis, who
was yet alive in spite of his mortal wounds, and who was a man of
splendid resolution and courage as well, {277} realizing that he could
not escape death, remained on board; and when the vessel was crowded
with Indians had revenged himself for the loss of his comrades by
firing the magazine and blowing up the ship. Again, it is possible
that Lewis may have died, and that Weeks, the armorer, the other
wounded man, made himself the instrument of his own and the Indians'
destruction. To complete the story, the four men who had escaped in
the boats were pursued, driven ashore, and fell into the hands of the
implacable Indians. They were tortured to death.
Such was the melancholy fate which attended some of the participants in
the first settlement of what is now one of the greatest and most
populous sections of the Union.
[1] I have seen a man at the wheel of the old _Constellation_ on one of
my own cruises similarly injured.
{281}
IV
John Paul Jones
Being Further Light on His Strange Career[1]
One hundred and eighteen years ago a little man who had attracted the
attention of two continents, and who, in his comparatively brief career
of forty-five years, had won eternal fame for himself among the heroes
of the world, died in Paris, alone in his room. He had been ill for
some time, and his physician, calling late in the evening, found him
prone upon his bed, sleeping a sleep from which no call to battle would
ever arouse him. Like Warren Hastings, John Paul Jones was at rest at
last; "in peace after so many storms, in honor after so much obliquy."
He was buried in a Protestant cemetery in Paris, which was officially
closed in January, 1793. The exact location of his grave there was
forgotten. For many years even the fact that he was buried there was
forgotten. The other day the cable flashed a message which gladdened
every American heart. Under the inspiration, and at the personal
charges, of General Horace Porter, United States Ambassador to France,
{282} a search had been instigated and the body was found and
completely identified. It is a service of sentiment that General
Porter has rendered us, but not the less valuable on that account. To
love the hero, to recall the heroic past, is good for the future. The
remains of the great captain came back to the United States. On the
decks of such a battleship as even his genius never dreamed of,
surrounded by a squadron that could have put to flight all the
sea-fighters of the world before the age of steam and steel, the body
of the little commodore was brought back to his adopted country to
repose on the soil of the land he loved, for whose liberty he fought,
whose honor he maintained in battle; and a suitable monument is to be
raised by our people to commemorate his services, to inspire like
conduct in years to come.
Commodore John Paul Jones, the first of the great American fighters,
and not the least splendid in the long line, was born of humble origin
in a southern county of Scotland. His family was obscure, his
circumstances narrow, his advantages meagre, his opportunities limited.
At the age of twelve he became a sailor. Genius rose, superior to
adverse circumstances, however, and before he died he was one of the
most accomplished officers who ever served the United States. The
greatest men of America and France took pleasure in his society and
were proud of his friendship.
He progressed rapidly in his chosen career. At nineteen he was chief
mate of a slaver, a legitimate occupation in his day but one that
filled him with disgust. At twenty-one he was captain of a trader. In
1773 he came to America, forsook the sea and settled in Virginia.
{283}
I. The Birth of the American Navy
He was still poor and still obscure when on December 7, 1775, he was
appointed a lieutenant in the new Continental Navy, In that capacity he
was ordered to the _Alfred_, a small converted merchantman, the
flagship of Commodore Hopkins. He joined the ship immediately, and in
the latter part of December he had the honor of hoisting with his own
hands the first naval flag of an American squadron. This was the
famous yellow silk banner with a rattlesnake and perhaps a pine tree
emblazoned upon it, and with the significant legend, "Don't tread on
me!"
Hopkins made an abortive expedition to New Providence, in which Jones
had but one opportunity to distinguish himself. At the peril of his
commission, when the regular pilots refused to do so, he volunteered to
take the _Alfred_ through a difficult and dangerous channel. Needless
to say, he succeeded--he always succeeded!
His first independent command was the little schooner _Providence_, of
seventy men and twelve four-pound guns. In the Fall of 1775 he made a
notable cruise in this schooner; he skirmished with, and escaped from,
by seamanship and daring, two heavy frigates, the _Solebay_ and the
_Milford_; in four months he captured sixteen vessels, eight of which
were sent in as prizes, five burned, three returned to certain poor
fishermen; and he destroyed property aggregating a million dollars.
Later, in command of the _Alfred_, with a short crew of one hundred and
fifty, when he should have had three hundred, he made another brilliant
cruise in {284} which he burned several British transports, captured
one store-ship, laden to the gunwales with priceless munitions of war
and supplies, cut out three of the supply fleet from under the guns of
the _Flora_ frigate, and had another smart brush with the _Milford_.
II. Jones First Hoists the Stars and Stripes
Commissioned captain on the 14th of June, 1777, in the same resolution
which established an American flag, he was ordered to the _Ranger_, a
little ship-rigged corvette of three hundred tons. In her, on the 4th
of July of the same year, he hoisted the first stars and stripes that
had ever waved over a ship-of-war. In Quiberon Bay--famous as one of
the battle-grounds of the world--on the evening of the 14th of
February, 1778, in the _Ranger_, he received the first formal
recognition ever given by a foreign fleet to the United States in a
salute to the American flag. As it was after sunset when the salutes
were exchanged, and in order that there should be no mistake about it,
the next morning, the 15th of February, Jones transferred his flag to
the _Independence_, a small privateer, and deliberately sailed through
La Motte Picquet's great fleet of towering line-of-battle-ships,
saluting and receiving salutes again.
Still on the _Ranger_, on the 24th of April, he fought the British
sloop-of-war _Drake_, of equal force and larger crew, to a standstill
in an hour and five minutes. When the _Drake_ struck her flag, her
rigging, sails and spars were cut to pieces. She had forty-two killed
and wounded--more than one-fifth of her crew--and was completely
helpless. The _Ranger_ lost two killed and six wounded.
{285}
In 1779 Jones hoisted his flag on the _Duc de Duras_, a condemned East
Indiaman, which would have been broken up had he not turned her into a
makeshift frigate by mounting forty guns in her batteries--fourteen
twelve-pounders, twenty nines and six eighteens. This, in honor of
Franklin, he named the _Bonhomme Richard_. Accompanied by the fine
little American-built frigate _Alliance_ and the French ship _Pallas_,
with the brig _Vengeance_, and the cutter _Cerf_, he cruised around
England, taking several prizes, and striking terror all along the shore.
III. The Battle With the _Serapis_
On the evening of the 23rd of September he fell in with the Baltic
convoy. He was accompanied at the time by the _Alliance_ and the
_Pallas_. The Baltic convoy was protected by the _Serapis_ and the
_Scarborough_. The _Serapis_ was a brand-new, double-banked frigate of
eight hundred tons, carrying twenty eighteen-pounders, twenty nines and
ten sixes. Inasmuch as the eighteen-pounders on the _Richard_ burst
and were abandoned after the first fire, the _Serapis_ could and did
discharge nearly twice as many pounds' weight of broadside as the
_Richard_, say three hundred pounds to one hundred and seventy-five.
The _Pallas_ grappled with the _Scarborough_--a more equal match--and
Jones attacked the _Serapis_, which was not unwilling--quite the
contrary--for the fight.
The battle was one of the most memorable and desperate ever fought upon
the ocean. The _Richard_ was riddled like a sieve. Her rotten sides
were literally blown out to starboard and port by the heavy batteries
of the _Serapis_. Jones had several hundred English {286} prisoners on
board. The master-at-arms released them, but, with great readiness and
presence of mind, Jones sent them to the pumps, while he continued to
fight the English frigate, his own ship kept afloat by their efforts.
Captain Pearson, of the _Serapis_, was as brave a man as ever drew a
sword, but he was no match for the indomitable personality of the
American commander. After several hours of such fighting as had
scarcely been seen before on the narrow seas, he struck his flag. The
_Alliance_, accompanied by a jealous and incapable Frenchman, had
contributed nothing to Jones's success. Indeed, she had twice poured
her broadsides into the _Richard_. The American vessel was so wrecked
below and aloft that she sank alongside, and Jones had to transfer the
survivors of his crew to the English frigate. The aggregate of the two
crews was nearly seven hundred, of which about three hundred and fifty
were killed or wounded.
It is the greatest pity that the poverty of America did not permit
Jones to get to sea in a proper frigate, or in a ship of the line,
before the close of the war. After the Revolution, in which he had
borne so conspicuous a part, so much so that his exploits had
electrified both continents, he took service under Catherine of Russia,
carefully reserving his American citizenship. In her service he fought
four brilliant actions in the Black Sea, in which he had to contend
with the usual discouragement of indifferent personnel and wretched
material, and in which he displayed all his old-time qualities, winning
his usual successes, too.
Worn out in unrequited service, disgusted with Russian court intrigues
of which he was the victim, resentful of the infamous Potemkin's brutal
attempts {287} at coercion, he asked leave of absence from Catherine's
service and went to Paris, where, in the companionship of his friends,
and in the society of the beautiful Aimèe de Telison, the one woman he
loved, he lived two years and died at the age of forty-five.
IV. A Hero's Famous Sayings
Besides the memory of his battles, Paul Jones left a collection of
immortal sayings, which are the heritage of the American Navy and the
admiration of brave men the world over. When the monument which is to
be erected shall be ready for inscriptions, these may with propriety be
carved upon it:
"_I do not wish to have command of any ship that does not sail fast,
for I intend to go in harm's way!_" Brave little captain.
"_I have ever looked out for the honor of the American flag!_" It is
the truth itself.
"_I can never renounce the glorious title of a citizen of the United
States!_" The title was one which Paul Jones signally honored.
Last, but not least, that curt phrase which comes ringing through the
centuries like a trumpet call to battle; the words with which he
replied to the demand of the astonished Pearson, who saw his enemy's
ship beaten to a pulp, and wondered why he did not yield:
"_I have not yet begun to fight!_"
That was the finest phrase, under the circumstances, that ever came
from the lips of an American sailor. "It was no new message. The
British had heard it as they tramped again and again up the
bullet-swept slopes of Bunker Hill; Washington rang it in the ears of
the Hessians on the snowy Christmas morning at {288} Trenton; the
hoof-beats of Arnold's horse kept time to it in the wild charge at
Saratoga; it cracked with the whip of the old wagoner Morgan at the
Cowpens; the Maryland troops drove it home in the hearts of their
enemies with Greene at Guilford Court House; and the drums of France
and America beat it into Cornwallis's ears when the end came at
Yorktown. There, that night, in that darkness, in that still moment of
battle, Paul Jones declared the determination of a great people. His
was the expression of an inspiration on the part of a new nation. From
this man came a statement of our unshakeable determination, at whatever
cost, to be free! A new Declaration of Independence, this famous word
of warning to the brave sailor of the British king."
V. What Jones Did for His Country
Never in his long career did Jones have a decent ship or a respectable
crew. His materials were always of the very poorest. His officers,
with the exception of Richard Dale, were but little to boast of. What
he accomplished, he accomplished by the exercise of his own indomitable
will, his serene courage, his matchless skill as a sailor, and his
devotion to the cause he had espoused. After his death, among his
papers, the following little memorandum, written in his own hand, was
found:
"In 1775, J. Paul Jones armed and embarked in the first American ship
of war. In the Revolution he had twenty-three battles and solemn
_rencontres_ by sea; made seven descents in Britain, and her colonies;
took of her navy two ships of equal, and two of superior force, many
store-ships, and others; constrained her to {289} fortify her ports;
suffer the Irish Volunteers; desist from her cruel burnings in America
and exchange, as prisoners of war, the American citizens taken on the
ocean, and cast into prisons of England, as 'traitors, pirates, and
felons!'"
Indeed a truthful and a brilliant record. Paul Jones was accused of
being a pirate. The charge was a long time dying, but it is to-day
generally disavowed. When recently his bones were returned to American
shores, may we not believe that from some valhalla of the heroes, where
the mighty men of the past mingle in peace and amity, he saw and took
pride in the great if tardy outpouring of our fellow citizens to greet
this first sea-king of our flag?
Now, this story of the magnificent career of John Paul Jones, so
briefly summarized, has been often told, and its details are familiar
to every schoolboy. There is one mystery connected with his life,
however, which has not yet been solved. I purpose to make here an
original contribution toward its solution. No one knows positively--it
is probable that no one ever will know, why John Paul assumed the name
of Jones. Of course the question is not vital to Jones's fame, for
from whatever reason he assumed the name by which he is remembered, he
certainly honored it most signally; but the reason for the assumption
is nevertheless of deep interest to all lovers of history. There have
been two explanations of this action.
VI. Why Did He Take the Name of Jones?
Five years ago two biographies of Jones appeared simultaneously. One I
had the honor of writing myself. The other was from the pen of that
gifted {290} and able author, the late Colonel Augustus C. Buell. Our
accounts were in singular agreement, save in one or two points, and our
conclusions as to the character of Jones in absolute harmony. In
Colonel Buell's book he put forth the theory--which, so far as I know,
had not before been formulated--that John Paul assumed the name of
Jones in testamentary succession to his brother William Paul, who had
preceded him to America; and that William Paul had himself taken the
name in testamentary succession to one William Jones, a childless old
planter of Middlesex County, Virginia, who bequeathed to the said
William Paul an extensive plantation on the Rappahannock, some nine
miles below Urbana, at a place called Jones's Wharf, on condition that
he call himself Jones. In 1805 this Jones property was owned by
members of the Taliaferro family, who had received it from Archibald
Frazier, who claimed to have received it from John Paul Jones, although
there are no records of transfer extant.
My theory, which Colonel Buell facetiously characterized--doubtless in
all good humor--as "Tar-heel mythology," stated that John Paul assumed
the name of Jones out of friendship and regard for the justly
celebrated Jones family of North Carolina, and especially for Mrs.
Willie Jones, who is not unknown in history, and who was one of the
most brilliant and charming women of the colonies. Members of this
family had befriended him and assisted him pecuniarily, and had
extended to him the bounteous hospitality of the famous plantations,
Mount Gallant and The Groves, near Halifax. It was through their
influence with Congressman Hewes that Jones received his commission as
a lieutenant in the Continental Navy. {291} In further explanation it
was suggested that on casting his lot with the rebellious colonies John
Paul, who was somewhat erratic as well as romantic and impulsive,
determined to take a new name and begin life over again.