University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

I left the two fleets manœuvring for the wind, in the
last chapter. About nine o'clock, the Pike got abeam of the
Wolfe, Sir James Yeo's own ship, hoisted her ensign, and
fired a few guns to try the range of her shot. The distance
was too great to engage. At this time our sternmost vessels
were two leagues off, and the commodore wore round, and
hauled up on the other tack. The enemy did the same;
but, perceiving that our leading ships were likely to weather
on him, he tacked, and hauled off to the northward. We
stood on in pursuit, tacking too; but the wind soon fell, and
about sunset it was quite calm.

Throughout the day, the Scourge had as much as she
could do to keep anywhere near her station. As for the old
Oneida, she could not be kept within a long distance of her
proper berth. We were sweeping, at odd times, for hours
that day. Towards evening, all the light craft were doing
the same, to close with the commodore. Our object was to
get together, lest the enemy should cut off some of our small
vessels during the night.

Before dark the whole line was formed again, with the
exception of the Oneida, which was still astern, towing.
She ought to have been near the commodore, but could not
get there. A little before sunset, Mr. Osgood ordered us to
pull in our sweeps, and to take a spell. It was a lovely
evening, not a cloud visible, and the lake being as smooth
as a looking-glass. The English fleet was but a short distance
to the northward of us; so near, indeed, that we could
almost count their ports. They were becalmed, like ourselves,
and a little scattered.

We took in our sweeps as ordered, laying them athwart
the deck, in readiness to be used when wanted. The vessels
ahead and astern of us were, generally, within speaking distance.
Just as the sun went below the horizon, George
Turnblatt, a Swede, who was our gunner, came to me, and
said he thought we ought to secure our guns; for we had
been cleared for action all day, and the crew at quarters.
We were still at quarters, in name; but the petty officers
were allowed to move about, and as much license was given
to the people as was wanted. I answered that I would gladly
secure mine if he would get an order for it; but as we were
still at quarters, and there lay John Bull, we might get a
slap at him in the night. On this the gunner said he would
go aft, and speak to Mr. Osgood on the subject. He did so,
but met the captain (as we always called Mr. Osgood) at the
break of the quarter-deck. When George had told his
errand, the captain looked at the heavens, and remarked
that the night was so calm, there could be no great use in
securing the guns, and the English were so near we should
certainly engage, if there came a breeze; that the men
would sleep at their quarters, of course, and would be ready
to take care of their guns; but that he might catch a turn
with the side-tackle-falls around the pommelions of the guns,
which would be sufficient. He then ordered the boatswain
to call all hands aft, to the break of the quarter-deck.

As soon as the people had collected, Mr. Osgood said—
“You must be pretty well fagged out, men; I think we may
have a hard night's work, yet, and I wish you to get your
suppers, and then catch as much sleep as you can, at your
guns.” He then ordered the purser's steward to splice the
main-brace. These were the last words I ever heard from

Mr. Osgood. As soon as he gave the order, he went below,
leaving the deck in charge of Mr. Bogardus. All our old
crew were on board but Mr. Livingston, who had left us,
and Simeon Grant, one of my companions in the cruise over
the battle-ground at Fort George. Grant had cut his hand
off, in a saw-mill, while we were last at the Harbour, and
had been left behind in the hospital. There was a pilot on
board, who used to keep a look-out occasionally, and sometimes
the boatswain had the watch.

The schooner, at this time, was under her mainsail, jib,
and fore-top-sail. The foresail was brailed, and the foot
stopped, and the flying-jib was stowed. None of the halyards
were racked, nor sheets stoppered. This was a precaution
we always took, on account of the craft's being so
tender.

We first spliced the main-brace and then got our suppers,
eating between the guns, where we generally messed, indeed.
One of my messmates, Tom Goldsmith, was captain of the
gun next to me, and as we sat there finishing our suppers, I
says to him, “Tom, bring up that rug that you pinned at
Little York, and that will do for both of us to stow ourselves
away under.” Tom went down and got the rug,
which was an article for the camp that he had laid hands
on, and it made us a capital bed-quilt. As all hands were
pretty well tired, we lay down, with our heads on shot-boxes,
and soon went to sleep.

In speaking of the canvass that was set, I ought to have
said something of the state of our decks. The guns had
the side-tackles fastened as I have mentioned. There was
a box of canister, and another of grape, at each gun, besides
extra stands of both, under the shot-racks. There
was also one grummet of round-shot at every gun, besides
the racks being filled. Each gun's crew slept at the gun
and its opposite, thus dividing the people pretty equally on
both sides of the deck. Those who were stationed below,
slept below. I think it probable that, as the night grew
cool, as it always does on the fresh waters, some of the men
stole below to get warmer berths. This was easily done in
that craft, as we had but two regular officers on board, the
acting boatswain and gunner being little more than two of
ourselves.

I was soon asleep, as sound as if lying in the bed of a
king. How long my nap lasted, or what took place in the
interval, I cannot say. I awoke, however, in consequence
of large drops of rain falling on my face. Tom Goldsmith
awoke at the same moment. When I opened my eyes, it
was so dark I could not see the length of the deck. I arose
and spoke to Tom, telling him it was about to rain, and that
I meant to go down and get a nip, out of a little stuff we
kept in our mess-chest, and that I would bring up the bottle
if he wanted a taste. Tom answered, “this is nothing;
we 're neither pepper nor salt.” One of the black men
spoke, and asked me to bring up the bottle, and give him a
nip, too. All this took half a minute, perhaps. I now remember
to have heard a strange rushing noise to windward
as I went towards the forward hatch, though it made no
impression on me at the time. We had been lying between
the starboard guns, which was the weather side of the vessel,
if there were any weather side to it, there not being a
breath of air, and no motion to the water, and I passed
round to the larboard side, in order to find the ladder, which
led up in that direction. The hatch was so small that two
men could not pass at a time, and I felt my way to it, in no
haste. One hand was on the bitts, and a foot was on the
ladder, when a flash of lightning almost blinded me. The
thunder came at the next instant, and with it a rushing of
winds that fairly smothered the clap.

The instant I was aware there was a squall, I sprang for
the jib-sheet. Being captain of the forecastle, I knew where
to find it, and throw it loose at a jerk. In doing this, I
jumped on a man named Leonard Lewis, and called on him
to lend me a hand. I next let fly the larboard, or lee topsail-sheet,
got hold of the clew-line, and, assisted by Lewis,
got the clew half up. All this time I kept shouting to the
man at the wheel to put his helm “hard down.” The water
was now up to my breast, and I knew the schooner must go
over. Lewis had not said a word, but I called out to him to
shift for himself, and belaying the clew-line, in hauling myself
forward of the foremast, I received a blow from the jib-sheet
that came near breaking my left arm. I did not feel the
effect of this blow at the time, though the arm has since

been operated on, to extract a tumour produced by this very
injury.

All this occupied less than a minute. The flashes of
lightning were incessant, and nearly blinded me. Our decks
seemed on fire, and yet I could see nothing. I heard no
hail, no order, no call; but the schooner was filled with
the shrieks and cries of the men to leeward, who were lying
jammed under the guns, shot-boxes, shot, and other heavy
things that had gone down as the vessel fell over. The
starboard second gun, from forward, had capsized, and come
down directly over the forward hatch, and I caught a glimpse
of a man struggling to get past it. Apprehension of this
gun had induced me to drag myself forward of the mast,
where I received the blow mentioned.

I succeeded in hauling myself up to windward, and in
getting into the schooner's fore-channels. Here I met William
Deer, the boatswain, and a black boy of the name of
Philips, who was the powder-boy of our gun. “Deer, she's
gone!” I said. The boatswain made no answer, but walked
out on the fore-rigging, towards the mast-head. He probably
had some vague notion that the schooner's masts would
be out of water if she went down, and took this course as
the safest. The boy was in the chains the last I saw of him.

I now crawled aft, on the upper side of the bulwarks,
amid a most awful and infernal din of thunder, and shrieks,
and dazzling flashes of lightning; the wind blowing all the
while like a tornado. When I reached the port of my own
gun, I put a foot in, thinking to step on the muzzle of the
piece; but it had gone to leeward with all the rest, and I
fell through the port, until I brought up with my arms. I
struggled up again, and continued working my way aft. As
I got abreast of the main-mast, I saw some one had let run
the halyards. I soon reached the beckets of the sweeps,
and found four in them. I could not swim a stroke, and it
crossed my mind to get one of the sweeps to keep me afloat.
In striving to jerk the becket clear, it parted, and the forward
ends of the four sweeps rolled down the schooner's side
into the water. This caused the other ends to slide, and all
the sweeps got away from me. I then crawled quite aft, as
far as the fashion-piece. The water was pouring down the

cabin companion-way like a sluice; and as I stood, for an
instant, on the fashion-piece, I saw Mr. Osgood, with his
head and part of his shoulders through one of the cabin
windows, struggling to get out. He must have been within
six feet of me. I saw him but a moment, by means of a
flash of lightning, and I think he must have seen me. At
the same time, there was a man visible on the end of the
main-boom, holding on by the clew of the sail. I do not
know who it was. This man probably saw me, and that I
was about to spring; for he called out, “Don't jump overboard!—don't
jump overboard! The schooner is righting.”

I was not in a state of mind to reflect much on anything.
I do not think more than three or four minutes, if as many,
had passed since the squall struck us, and there I was standing
on the vessel's quarter, led by Providence more than
by any discretion of my own. It now came across me that
if the schooner should right she was filled, and must go
down, and that she might carry me with her in the suction.
I made a spring, therefore, and fell into the water several
feet from the place where I had stood. It is my opinion the
schooner sunk as I left her. I went down some distance
myself, and when I came up to the surface, I began to swim
vigorously for the first time in my life. I think I swam
several yards, but of course will not pretend to be certain
of such a thing, at such a moment, until I felt my hand hit
something hard. I made another stroke, and felt my hand
pass down the side of an object that I knew at once was a
clincher-built boat. I belonged to this boat, and I now
recollected that she had been towing astern. Until that
instant I had not thought of her, but thus was I led in the
dark to the best possible means of saving my life. I made
a grab at the gunwale, and caught it in the stern-sheets.
Had I swum another yard, I should have passed the boat,
and missed her altogether! I got in without any difficulty,
being all alive and much excited.

My first look was for the schooner. She had disappeared,
and I supposed she was just settling under water. It rained
as if the flood-gates of heaven were opened, and it lightened
awfully. It did not seem to me that there was a breath of
air, and the water was unruffled, the effects of the rain excepted.
All this I saw, as it might be, at a glance. But

my chief concern was to preserve my own life. I was
cockswain of this very boat, and had made it fast to the
taffrail that same afternoon, with a round turn and two half-hitches,
by its best painter. Of course I expected the vessel
would drag the boat down with her, for I had no knife to
cut the painter. There was a gang-board in the boat, however,
which lay fore and aft, and I thought this might keep
me afloat until some of the fleet should pick me up. To
clear this gang-board, then, and get it into the water, was
my first object. I ran forward to throw off the lazy-painter
that was coiled on its end, and in doing this I caught the
boat's painter in my hand, by accident. A pull satisfied me
that it was all clear! Some one on board must have cast
off this painter, and then lost his chance of getting into the
boat by an accident. At all events, I was safe, and I now
dared to look about me.

My only chance of seeing, was during the flashes; and
these left me almost blind. I had thrown the gang-board
into the water, and I now called out to encourage the men,
telling them I was in the boat. I could hear many around
me, and, occasionally, I saw the heads of men, struggling
in the lake. There being no proper place to scull in, I got
an oar in the after rullock, and made out to scull a little, in
that fashion. I now saw a man quite near the boat; and,
hauling in the oar, made a spring amidships, catching this
poor fellow by the collar. He was very near gone; and I
had a great deal of difficulty in getting him in over the gunwale.
Our joint weight brought the boat down, so low, that
she shipped a good deal of water. This turned out to be
Leonard Lewis, the young man who had helped me to clew
up the fore-topsail. He could not stand, and spoke with
difficulty. I asked him to crawl aft, out of the water; which
he did, lying down in the stern-sheets.

I now looked about me, and heard another; leaning over
the gunwale, I got a glimpse of a man, struggling, quite
near the boat. I caught him by the collar, too; and had to
drag him in very much in the way I had done with Lewis.
This proved to be Lemuel Bryant, the man who had been
wounded by a hot shot, at York, as already mentioned,
while the commodore was on board us. His wound had not
yet healed, but he was less exhausted than Lewis. He could

not help me, however, lying down in the bottom of the boat,
the instant he was able.

For a few moments, I now heard no more in the water;
and I began to scull again. By my calculation, I moved a
few yards, and must have got over the spot where the
schooner went down. Here, in the flashes, I saw many
heads, the men swimming in confusion, and at random. By
this time, little was said, the whole scene being one of fearful
struggling and frightful silence. It still rained; but the
flashes were less frequent, and less fierce. They told me,
afterwards, in the squadron, that it thundered awfully; but
I cannot say I heard a clap, after I struck the water. The
next man caught the boat himself. It was a mulatto, from
Martinique, who was Mr. Osgood's steward; and I helped
him in. He was much exhausted, though an excellent
swimmer; but alarm nearly deprived him of his strength.
He kept saying, “Oh! Masser Ned — Oh! Masser Ned!”
and lay down in the bottom of the boat, like the two others;
I taking care to shove him over to the larboard side, so as
to trim our small craft.

I kept calling out, to encourage the swimmers, and presently
I heard a voice, saying, “Ned, I'm here, close by
you.” This was Tom Goldsmith, a messmate, and the very
man under whose rug I had been sleeping, at quarters. He
did not want much help, getting in, pretty much, by himself.
I asked him, if he were able to help me. “Yes, Ned,” he
answered, “I 'll stand by you to the last; what shall I do?” I
told him to take his tarpaulin, and to bail the boat, which,
by this time, was a third full of water. This he did, while
I sculled a little ahead. “Ned,” says Tom, “she's gone
down with her colours flying, for her pennant came near
getting a round turn about my body, and carrying me down
with her. Davy has made a good haul, and he gave us a
close shave; but he didn't get you and me.” In this manner
did this thoughtless sailor express himself, as soon as rescued
from the grasp of death! Seeing something on the
water, I asked Tom to take my oar, while I sprang to the
gunwale, and caught Mr. Bogardus, the master's mate, who
was clinging to one of the sweeps. I hauled him in, and
he told me, he thought, some one had hold of the other end
of the sweep. It was so dark, however, we could not see

even that distance. I hauled the sweep along, until I found
Ebenezer Duffy, a mulatto, and the ship's cook. He could
not swim a stroke; and was nearly gone. I got him in,
alone, Tom bailing, lest the boat, which was quite small,
should swamp with us.

As the boat drifted along, she reached another man,
whom I caught also by the collar. I was afraid to haul
this person in amidships, the boat being now so deep, and
so small, and so I dragged him ahead, and hauled him in
over the bows. This was the pilot, whose name I never
knew. He was a lake-man, and had been aboard us the
whole summer. The poor fellow was almost gone, and like
all the rest, with the exception of Tom, he lay down and
said not a word.

We had now as many in the boat as it would carry, and
Tom and myself thought it would not do to take in any
more. It is true, we saw no more, everything around us
appearing still as death, the pattering of the rain excepted.
Tom began to bail again, and I commenced hallooing. I
sculled about several minutes, thinking of giving others a
tow, or of even hauling in one or two more, after we got
the water out of the boat; but we found no one else. I
think it probable I sculled away from the spot, as there was
nothing to guide me. I suppose, however, that by this time,
all the Scourges had gone down, for no more were ever
heard from.

Tom Goldsmith and myself now put our heads together
as to what was best to be done. We were both afraid of
falling into the enemy's hands, for, they might have bore
up in the squall, and run down near us. On the whole,
however, we thought the distance between the two squadrons
was too great for this; at all events, something must
be done at once. So we began to row, in what direction
even we did not know. It still rained as hard as it could
pour, though there was not a breath of wind. The lightning
came now at considerable intervals, and the gust was evidently
passing away towards the broader parts of the lake.
While we were rowing and talking about our chance of
falling in with the enemy, Tom cried out to me to “avast
pulling.” He had seen a vessel by a flash, and he thought
she was English, from her size. As he said she was a

schooner, however, I thought it must be one of our own
craft, and got her direction from him. At the next flash I
saw her, and felt satisfied she belonged to us. Before we
began to pull, however, we were hailed “boat ahoy!” I
answered. “If you pull another stroke, I 'll fire into you”—
came back—“what boat's that? Lay on your oars, or I 'll
fire into you.” It was clear we were mistaken ourselves
for an enemy, and I called out to know what schooner it
was. No answer was given, though the threat to fire was
repeated, if we pulled another stroke. I now turned to Tom
and said, “I know that voice — that is old Trant.” Tom
thought “we were in the wrong shop.” I now sung out,
“This is the Scourge's boat—our schooner has gone down,
and we want to come alongside.” A voice next called from
the schooner—“Is that you, Ned?” This I knew was my
old ship-mate and school-fellow, Jack Mallet, who was acting
as boatswain of the Julia, the schooner commanded by
sailing-master James Trant, one of the oddities of the service,
and a man with whom the blow often came as soon as
the word. I had known Mr. Trant's voice, and felt more
afraid he would fire into us, than I had done of anything
which had occurred that fearful night. Mr. Trant, himself,
now called out — “Oh-ho; give way, boys, and come
alongside.” This we did, and a very few strokes took us
up to the Julia, where we were received with the utmost
kindness. The men were passed out of the boat, while I
gave Mr. Trant an account of all that had happened. This
took but a minute or two.

Mr. Trant now inquired in what direction the Scourge
had gone down, and, as soon as I had told him, in the best
manner I could, he called out to Jack Mallet—“Oh-ho, Mallet—take
four hands, and go in the boat and see what you
can do—take a lantern, and I will show a light on the water's
edge, so you may know me.” Mallet did as ordered,
and was off in less than three minutes after we got alongside.
Mr. Trant, who was much humoured, had no officer
in the Julia, unless Mallet could be called one. He was an
Irishman by birth, but had been in the American navy ever
since the revolution, dying a lieutenant, a few years after
this war. Perhaps no man in the navy was more generally
known, or excited more amusement by his oddities, or more

respect for his courage. He had come on the lake with the
commodore, with whom he was a great pet, and had been
active in all the fights and affairs that had yet taken place.
His religion was to hate an Englishman.

Mr. Trant now called the Scourges aft, and asked more
of the particulars. He then gave us a glass of grog all
round, and made his own crew splice the main-brace. The
Julias now offered us dry clothes. I got a change from
Jack Reilly, who had been an old messmate, and with whom
I had always been on good terms. It knocked off raining,
but we shifted ourselves at the galley fire below. I then
went on deck, and presently we heard the boat pulling back.
It soon came alongside, bringing in it four more men that
had been found floating about on sweeps and gratings. On
inquiry, it turned out that these men belonged to the Hamilton,
Lt. Winter—a schooner that had gone down in the
same squall that carried us over. These men were very
much exhausted, too, and we all went below, and were told
to turn in.

I had been so much excited during the scenes through
which I had just passed, and had been so much stimulated
by grog, that, as yet, I had not felt much of the depression
natural to such events. I even slept soundly that night, nor
did I turn out until six the next morning.

When I got on deck, there was a fine breeze; it was a
lovely day, and the lake was perfectly smooth. Our fleet was
in a good line, in pretty close order, with the exception of
the Governor Tompkins, Lieutenant Tom Brown, which was
a little to leeward, but carrying a press of sail to close with
the commodore. Mr. Trant perceiving that the Tompkins
wished to speak us in passing, brailed his foresail and let
her luff up close under our lee. “Two of the schooners,
the Hamilton and the Scourge, have gone down in the night,”
called out Mr. Brown; “for I have picked up four of the
Hamilton's.” “Oh-ho!”—answered Mr. Trant—“That's
no news at all! for I have picked up twelve; eight of the
Scourge's, and four of the Hamilton's—aft fore-sheet.”

These were all that were ever saved from the two schooners,
which must have had near a hundred souls on board
them. The two commanders, Lieutenant Winter and Mr.
Osgood were both lost, and with Mr. Winter went down

I believe, one or two young gentlemen. The squadron
could not have moved much between the time when the
accidents happened and that when I came on deck, or we
must have come round and gone over the same ground
again, for we now passed many relics of the scene, floating
about in the water. I saw spunges, gratings, sweeps, hats,
&c., scattered about, and in passing ahead we saw one of
the latter that we tried to catch; Mr. Trant ordering it
done, as he said it must have been Lieutenant Winter's.
We did not succeed, however; nor was any article taken
on board. A good look-out was kept for men, from aloft,
but none were seen from any of the vessels. The lake had
swallowed up the rest of the two crews; and the Scourge,
as had been often predicted, had literally become a coffin to
a large portion of her people.

There was a good deal of manœuvring between the two
fleets this day, and some efforts were made to engage; but,
to own the truth, I felt so melancholy about the loss of so
many ship-mates, that I did not take much notice of what
passed. All my Black Jokers were drowned, and nothing
remained of the craft and people with which and whom I
had been associated all summer. Bill Southard, too, was
among the lost, as indeed were all my messmates but Tom
Goldsmith and Lemuel Bryant. I had very serious and
proper impressions for the moment; but my new shipmates,
some of whom had been old shipmates in other crafts, managed
to cheer me up with grog. The effect was not durable,
and in a short time I ceased to think of what had happened.
I have probably reflected more on the merciful manner in
which my life was spared, amid a scene so terrific, within
the last five years, than I did in the twenty-five that immediately
followed the accidents.

The fleet went in, off the Niagara, and anchored. Mr.
Trant now mustered the remaining Scourges, and told us
he wanted just our number of hands, and that he meant to
get an order to keep us in the Julia. In the meantime, he
should station and quarter us. I was stationed at the braces,
and quartered at the long thirty-two as second loader. The
Julia mounted a long thirty-two, and an eighteen on pivots,
besides two sixes in the waist. The last were little used, as
I have already mentioned. She was a small, but a fast

schooner, and had about forty souls on board. She was
altogether a better craft than the Scourge, though destitute
of any quarters, but a low rail with wash-boards, and carrying
fewer guns.