cable’s length of the end of the strait, and in rounding-to into the
lagoon we would if our approach had been detected, have to run the
gauntlet of the broadside of the craft guarding this approach to the
pirates’ den—a broadside which if well delivered would in all
probability send us to the bottom. Our peril was indeed imminent. And
the uncertainty whether our approach had been detected or not created a
feeling of nervous suspense which increased our sensation of our peril.
“A minute more and we shall shoot by the pirate,” said I to the captain
of our craft.
“Ay!” said he, “I have just passed the word for the men to lie down
under the shelter of the bulwarks, so that if they pour a fire of
musketry into us, we shall escape it as much as possible. Let us follow
their example.”
We sheltered ourselves just forward of the wheel-house, so that as the
vessel came around on the starboard tack, no living individual was left
standing on the deck, except the helmsman. The next moment, leaving the
shelter of the high bank, we swept into the lagoon, and saw the dark
hull of the opposing vessel moored directly across our way.
Our suspense however was soon brought to a close. We had scarcely come
abreast of the enemy’s broadside when, as if by magic, her port-holes
were thrown open, and as the blaze of the battle lanterns streamed
across the night, her guns were run out and instantaneously her fire was
poured out from stem to stern in one continuous sheet of flame. Our
mainmast went at once by the board; our hull was fearfully cut up; and
the shrieks of the wounded of our crew rose up in terrible discord as
the roar of the broadside died away. But we still had headway. Springing
to his feet the captain shouted to cut away the hamper that dragged the
mainmast by our side. His orders were instantly obeyed. The schooner was
once more headed for the hulk, and with a loud cheer our men sprang to
their guns, while our consort behind opened her fire at the same moment.
Our light armament however was almost wholly inefficient. But happily we
had not relied on it.
“Lay her aboard!” shouted the captain, “boarders away!”
At the word, amid the fire of a renewed broadside we dashed up to the
foe, and running her afoul just abaft of the mizzen-chains, poured our
exasperated men like a torrent upon her decks. I was one of the first to
mount her bulwarks. Attacked thus at their very guns the pirates rallied
desperately to the defence, and a furious combat ensued. I remember
striking eagerly for a moment or two in the very thickest of the fight,
and then feeling a sharp pain in my side, as a pistol went off beside
me. I have a faint recollection of sinking to the deck, but after that
all is a void.
* * * * *
RECOLLECTIONS OF WEST POINT.
BY MISS LESLIE.
(Continued from page 209.)
PART II.
The two winters that I spent at West Point, though long and cold, were
by no means tedious. Secluded as we were from the rest of the world,
while the river was locked up in ice, still we contrived amusements for
ourselves, and had much enjoyment in our own way. The society of the
place, though not large, was excellent. And in the evening (the best
time for social intercourse) almost every member of our little circle
was either out visiting, or at home entertaining visiters. There were
reading-parties that assembled every Thursday night at the respective
houses—the ladies bringing their work, and the gentlemen their books.
The gentlemen had also weekly chess-parties, of ten or twelve
chess-players and five or six chess-boards. They met at an early hour,
and no ladies being present, they seriously set to work at this
absorbing game—the solemnities being interrupted only by a _petit
souper_ at ten o’clock,—after which they resumed their chess, and
frequently took no note of time till near midnight.
On the second winter of my abode at West Point, we had a series of
regular subscription-balls, held in the large up-stairs room of the mess
hall—the expense being defrayed by the officers and professors. On the
first of these evenings the ground was hard frozen, but as yet no snow
had fallen. The managers had notified that the ladies were all to ride
to the ball. We were at a loss to conjecture where they would find
conveyances for us—and we were not Cinderellas with convenient
fairy-godmothers to transform pumpkins into coaches. An omnibus would
have been a glorious acquisition—but at that time there was nothing on
West Point in the shape of a wheeled carriage, with the exception of the
doctor’s gig. This vehicle was pressed into the service—and having
great duty to perform, it commenced its trips at a very early hour,
actually calling for the first lady at five o’clock in the
afternoon—and from that time it was continually coming and going like a
short stage. At last, by way of expediting the business, they thought
proper to adopt, as an auxiliary to the gig, another conveyance not of
the most dignified character. But then nobody saw us but ourselves—and
newspaper correspondents had not yet begun to come up to West Point to
forage among us in quest of food for their columns.
My sister-in-law and myself had not quite finished dressing, when we
heard my brother down stairs calling to our man to know why he had
thrown open the large gate?—“To let in the cart, sir, to take the
ladies to the ball”—was Richard’s reply. And, true enough, we found at
the door a real _bonâ fide_ open cart, having its flooring covered with
straw. In it were some rather inelegant chairs, upon which my sister and
I seated ourselves, like a couple of market-women. My brother having
assisted us in, seemed to think it unofficer-like conduct to ride in a
cart, and therefore, preferred walking—which, however, was no great
fatigue, the distance being only a few furlongs from the house in which
we then lived to the mess hall. The driver perched himself on the edge
of the front board—and after a few steps of the horse, each accompanied
by one jolt and two creaks, we were safely transported to the ball.
Fortunately, before the next _soirée de danse_ the ground was covered
with a deep snow; and the sleighing was excellent during the remainder
of the winter. As sleighs were singularly plenty on West Point, and as a
sleigh has the faculty of holding ladies _ad libitum_, the company was
conveyed very expeditiously to the subsequent balls. This mode of
transportation was found so convenient, that at the close of the season,
(which was not till late in March,) though the snow had all disappeared
and the ground was clear, the sleighs were still kept in requisition;
and we went to the last ball sleighing upon nothing.
I well remember being at a New Year’s ball given by the cadets. This
also took place in the large upper room of the mess hall. The
decorations (which were the best the place and the season could furnish)
were planned and executed entirely by those young gentlemen. For several
previous days they had devoted their leisure-time to cutting and
bringing in an immense quantity of evergreens, with which they festooned
the walls, and converted every one of the numerous windows into a sort
of bower, by arching it from the top to the floor with an impervious
mass of thickly-woven foliage. The pillars that supported the ceiling
were each encircled by muskets with very bright bayonets. The orchestra
for the music was constructed of the national flag that belonged to the
post. This flag, which, when flying out from the top of its lofty staff,
looks at that height scarcely more than a yard or two in length, is, in
reality, so large, that when taken down two men are required to carry it
away in its voluminous folds. On this occasion the drapery of the stars
and stripes was ingeniously disposed, so as to form something like a
stage-box with a canopy over it. The two elegant standards that had been
presented to the corps of cadets by the hands of ladies, were fancifully
and gracefully suspended between the central pillars, and waved over the
heads of the dancers. Affixed to the walls were numerous lights in
sconces, decorated with wreaths of the mountain-laurel whose leaves are
green all winter. These sconces were merely of tin, made very bright for
the occasion; but they were the same that had been used at the ball
given, while our army lay at West Point, by the American to the French
officers, in honor of the birth of the dauphin. For this camp-like
entertainment, the soldiers erected on the plain, a sort of pavilion or
arbor of immense length covered in with laurel branches, and illuminated
by these simple lamps, which afterwards became valuable as revolutionary
relics. They have ever since been taken care of, in the military
store-house belonging to West Point.
At this memorable ball whose courtesies were emblematic of the national
feeling, and which was intended to assist in strengthening the bonds of
alliance between the regal government of France and the first congress
of America, the ladies of many of our continental officers were present:
having travelled to West Point for the purpose—and in the dance that
commenced the festivities of the evening, the lady of General Knox led
off as the partner of Washington. In all probability the
commander-in-chief, with his fine figure and always graceful deportment,
was in early life an excellent dancer, according to the fashion of those
times.
Undoubtedly the intelligence of this complimentary entertainment was
received with pleasure by Louis the Sixteenth and his beautiful
Antoinette. Little did these unfortunate sovereigns surmise that those
of their own subjects who participated in the festivities of that night,
would return to France so imbued with republican principles as to lend
their aid in overturning the throne;—that throne whose foundation had
already been undermined by the crimes and vices of the two preceding
monarchs. Few were the years that intervened between the emancipation of
America, and that tremendous period when the brilliant court of
Versailles was swept away by the hands of an infuriated people; its
“princes and lords” either flying into exile or perishing on the
scaffold. And, idolized as they had been at the commencement of their
eventful reign, the son of St. Louis and the daughter of the Cæsars were
relentlessly consigned to a dreary captivity terminated by a bloody
death.
“How short, how gay, how bright the smile
That cheered their morning ray;
How dark, how cold, how loud the storm
That raging closed their day!”
The dauphin, whose birth was thus honored in the far-off land which his
royal father was assisting in her contest for liberty, died, happily for
himself, in early childhood; thus, escaping the miseries that were
heaped upon the unfortunate boy who succeeded him.
The West Point balls seem to have peculiar charms for strangers,
particularly if these strangers are young ladies, and it is a pleasure
to the residents of the place to see them enjoy the novelty of the
scene. The fair visiters are always delighted with the decorations of
the room, with the chivalric gallantry of the officers and cadets, and
still more with the circumstance of all their partners being in uniform.
To those who are not “to the manner born,” there is something very
dazzling in the shine of a military costume.
At the New Year’s ball to which I have alluded, among other invited
guests was a party that came over in an open boat from the opposite side
of the Hudson, notwithstanding that the weather was intensely cold, the
sky threatening a snow-storm, and the river almost impassable from the
accumulating ice. The young ladies belonging to this party were
certainly valuable acquisitions to the company, as they were handsome,
sprightly, beautifully drest, and excellent dancers. I particularly
recollect one of them—a tall, fair, fine-looking girl, attired in white
satin with an upper dress of transparent pink zephyr, the skirt and
sleeves looped up with small white roses. Her figure was set off to
great advantage by an extremely well-fitting boddice of pale pink satin,
laced in front with white silk cord and tassels—and a spray of white
roses looked out among the plats that were enwreathed at the back of her
finely-formed head. This young lady and her friends seemed to enter _con
amore_ into the enjoyment of the scene and the dance. But their pleasure
was dearly purchased. As they had made arrangements to return home that
night, after twelve o’clock, when the ball was over, they could not be
persuaded to remain at West Point till the following day. They embarked
with the gentlemen who belonged to their party. At daylight their boat
was descried in the middle of the river. It was completely blocked up by
the ice that had gathered round it, and in this manner they had passed
the cold and dreary remainder of the night whose first part had afforded
them so much enjoyment. A boat was immediately sent out from West Point
to their rescue, and the ladies were found benumbed with cold, and
indeed nearly dead. The ice was cut away with axes brought for the
purpose, they were released from their perilous condition, and with much
difficulty the passage to the other side of the river was finally
achieved. After the ladies had recovered from the effects of so many
hours severe suffering, they were said to have declared that they would
willingly go through a repetition of the same for the sake of another
such ball.
My compassion was much excited by a _contre-tems_ that happened to
certain fair young strangers from New York, whom I found in the
dressing-room at the close of one of the summer balls annually given by
the cadets about the last of August, on the eve of the day in which they
break up their encampment, and return to their usual residence in the
barracks. The above-mentioned young ladies had come up from the city
that evening, in consequence of invitations sent down to them a week
before. By some unaccountable oversight either of themselves or of the
gentlemen that escorted them, the trunks or boxes containing their
ball-room paraphernalia, instead of being landed on the wharf at West
Point had been left on board the steam-boat, and had gone up to Albany.
As it was a rainy evening, these young ladies (four or five in number)
had embarked in their very worst dresses, which they considered quite
good enough for the crowd and damp and heat of the ladies’ cabin, in
whose uncomfortable precincts the bad weather would compel them to
seclude themselves during their voyage of three or four hours. They did
not discover that their baggage was missing till after their arrival at
the dressing-room, supposing that the trunks were coming after them
up-stairs. Here they had remained the whole evening, and all they knew
of the ball and its anticipated pleasures was the sound of the music
from below as it imperfectly reached them; the shaking of the windows as
the floor vibrated under the feet of the dancers; and a glance at the
dresses of the ladies as they came up when the ball was over, to muffle
themselves in their shawls and calashes. None of the distressed damsels
had sufficient courage to go down to the ball-room in their dishabille,
and sit there as spectators: though much importuned to do so by their
unlucky beaux. I give this little anecdote as an admonition to my
youthful readers to take especial care that their baggage does not give
them the slip when they are travelling to a ball.
The cadets are remarkably clever at getting up fancy-balls, and in
dressing and sustaining whatever characters they then assume. The corps
being composed of miscellaneous young gentlemen from every section of
the Union, each is _au fait_ to the peculiar characteristics of the
common people that he has seen in his native place—and they represent
them with much truth and humor. There will be, for instance, a hunter
from the far west; a Yankee pedlar with his tins and other “notions;” an
assortment of Tuckahoes, Buckeyes, Hooshers, Wolverines, &c.; and also a
good proportion of Indians.
At one of these fancy-balls the squeak of a bad fife (or perhaps of a
good fife badly played on) and the tuck of an ill-braced drum, was heard
ascending the stair-case followed by an irregular tramp of feet and the
chatter of many voices. The door (which had been recently closed) was
now thrown open with a bang, and a militia company, personated by a
number of the choicest cadets, came marching in, with a step that set
all time and tune at defiance; some trudging, some ambling, and some
striding. They were headed by a captain who, compared to Uncle Sam’s
officers, certainly wore his regimentals “with a difference.” Having
“marshalled his clan,” whom he arranged with a picturesque intermixture
of tall and short, and in a line partaking of the serpentine, he put
them through their exercise in a manner so laughably bad as could only
have been enacted by persons who knew perfectly well what it ought to
be. Their firelocks were rough sticks, cornstalks, and shut
umbrellas—and when the captain was calling the muster-roll, the names
to which his men answered were ludicrous in the extreme.
I have before alluded to the West Point Band, which must always be
classed among the most agreeable recollections connected with that
place; particularly by those who were familiar with its excellence when
Willis was the instructor in military music. He was an Irishman, and had
belonged to the lord lieutenant’s band at Dublin Castle. His own
exquisite performance on the Kent bugle can never be forgotten by any
one who has been so fortunate as to hear it; and he taught all the
members of the West Point Band to play on their respective instruments
in the most admirable manner. One of them, named Ford, excelled on the
octave flute. Sometimes when, on a moonlight summer evening, they were
playing under the beautiful elms that are clustered in front of the mess
house, and delighting us with a charming composition called the
Nightingale, Ford would ascend one of the trees, and seated amidst its
branches, perform solo on his flute those passages that imitated the
warbling of the bird.
Occasionally a distinguished vocalist came to West Point for the purpose
of having a concert; and these concerts were always well attended. On
one of the concert nights, Willis accompanied Keene (a celebrated singer
of that time) in the fine martial air of the Last Bugle—a beautiful
song beginning,
“When the muffled drum sounds the last march of the brave.”
As each verse finished with, “When he hears the last bugle,” Willis
sounded the bugle in a manner which seemed almost a foretaste of the
muse of another world. “When he hears the last bugle”—is again
repeated, and the bugle accompaniment is lower and still sweeter. But at
the concluding words, “When he hears the last bugle he’ll stand to his
arms”—the loud, exulting and melodious tones of the noble instrument
came out in all their fullness of sound, with an effect that elicited
the most rapturous applause, and which words cannot describe nor
imagination conceive.
How much is the beauty of music assisted by the beauty of poetry. Shame
on selfish composers and conceited performers who, “wishing all the
interest to centre in themselves,” assert that the words of a song are
of no consequence, and that if good, they only divert the attention of
the hearers from the music—Milton thought otherwise when (himself a
fine musician) he speaks of the double charms of “music married to
immortal verse.” As well might we say that it was a disadvantage for a
handsome woman to possess a fine figure, lest it should render the
beauty of her face less conspicuous.
Music affords additional delight when, it accompanies the recollection
of some interesting fact; or of some fanciful and vivid allusion
connected with romance, that idol of the young and enthusiastic. Among
the numerous accounts of the peninsular war which have been given to the
world by English officers, I was much struck by a little incident that I
once read in a description of the entrance of Wellington’s army into
France while expelling the French from Spain and following them into
their own land beyond the Pyrenees. The first division of the English
troops had at length reached the frontier. After a day of toilsome march
the regiment to which our author belonged encamped for the night in the
far-famed valley of Roncevalles, where a thousand years before the army
of Charlemagne in attempting the invasion of Spain, had been driven back
by the Spanish Moors and defeated with great slaughter, and the loss of
his best and noblest paladins, including “Roland brave, and Olivier.”
The mind of our narrator was carried back to the chivalrous days of the
dark ages, and he might almost have listened for
——“The blast of that dread horn
On Fontarabian echoes borne
The dying hero’s call.”——
It was a clear cool evening—the sun had sunk behind the hills—the roll
had been called, the sentinels posted, and the band of the regiment was
playing. The English officer, imbued with the subject of his reverie,
advanced to request of its leader that beautiful air
“Sad and fearful is the story
Of the Roncevalles fight,”——
when he was unexpectedly anticipated by one of his companions in arms,
another young officer whose thoughts had been running in the same
channel, and who had stepped forward before him with the same request.
The wild and melancholy notes of Lewis’s popular song now rose upon the
still evening air, on the very same spot where ten centuries ago the
battle that it lamented, had been fought.
On the West Point Band I have frequently heard music of a soft and
touching character played with a taste and pathos that almost drew tears
from the hearers—for instance, the sad but charming Scottish air,
“Oh! Mary when the wild wind blows.”
I have heard Willis say, that after the publication of the Irish
melodies was planned, he was engaged by Moore and Sir John Stevenson, to
travel in bye roads and remote places among the peasantry, for the
purpose of collecting from them all the songs and tunes peculiar to
their country. He frequently passed the night in their cabins, where he
was always hospitably received, and where he was liked the better for
making himself at home among the people; singing new songs for _them_,
(he was a good singer) and inducing them to sing him old ones in return.
So that in this way he caught a great number of national airs, which
were then new to him, and which he afterwards put in score. It was for
these melodies that the minstrel of Ireland wrote those exquisite songs,
on which he may rest his fairest claim to immortality.
Willis was himself an excellent composer of military music. While at
West Point he produced a number of very fine marches and quicksteps,
usually calling them after the officers. Those denominated General
Swift’s March, and Lieutenant Blaney’s Quickstep, were perhaps the best.
To some he did not even take the trouble to affix a title, but
distinguished them by numbers. Sometimes when we sent out to ask the
name of “that fine new march or quickstep that the band had just
played,” he would reply that it was No. 12 or No. 16. The officers often
suggested to him the publication of these admirable pieces as a source
of profit to himself, and of pleasure to the community; but with his
habitual carelessness of his own interest, he always neglected taking
any steps for the purpose. There is reason to fear that few or no copies
of them are now in existence: and therefore they will be lost for ever
to the admirers of martial music. Willis lived about twelve years at
West Point, and died there of a lingering illness in 1830.