University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

We made the Land's End in fine weather, and with a
fair wind. Instead of keeping up channel, however, our
ship hauled in for the land. Cooper was at the helm, and
the captain asked him if he knew of any one on board who
had ever been into Falmouth. He was told that Philadelphia
Bill had been pointing out the different head-lands on
the forecastle, and that, by his own account, he had sailed a
long time out of the port. This Bill was a man of fifty,
steady, trust-worthy, quiet, and respected by every man in
the ship. He had taken a great liking to Cooper, whom he
used to teach how to knot and splice, and other niceties of
the calling, and Cooper often took him ashore with him, and
amused him with historical anecdotes of the different places
we visited. In short, the intimacy between them was as
great as well could be, seeing the difference in their educations
and ages. But, even to Cooper, Bill always called
himself a Philadelphian. In appearance, indeed, he resembled
one of those whom we call Yankees, in America, more
than anything else.

Bill was now sent for and questioned. He seemed uneasy,
but admitted he could take the ship into Falmouth.
There was nothing in the way, but a rock abreast Pendennis

Castle, but it was easy to give that a berth. We now
learned that the captain had made up his mind to go into
this port and ride out the quarantine to which all Mediterranean
vessels were subject. Bill took us in very quietly,
and the ship was ordered up a few miles above the town, to
a bay where vessels rode out their quarantine. The next
day a doctor's boat came alongside, and we were ordered to
show ourselves, and flourish our limbs, in order to make it
evident we were alive and kicking. There were four men
in the boat, and, as it turned out, every one of them recognised
Bill, who was born within a few miles of the very spot
where the ship lay, and had a wife then living a great deal
nearer to him than he desired. It was this wife—there happening
to be too much of her—that had driven the poor fellow
to America, twenty years before, and which rendered
him unwilling to live in his native country. By private
means, Bill managed to have some communication with the
men in the boat, and got their promises not to betray him.
This was done by signs altogether, speaking being quite out
of the question.

We were near, or quite, a fortnight in quarantine; after
which the ship dropped down abreast of the town. This
was of a Saturday, and Sunday, a portion of the crew were
permitted to go ashore. Bill was of the number, and when
he returned he admitted that he had been so much excited
at finding himself in the place, that he had been a little
indiscreet. That night he was very uncomfortable, but
nothing occurred to molest any of us. The next morning
all seemed right, and Bill began to be himself again; often
wishing, however, that the anchor was a-weigh, and the
ship turning out of the harbour. We soon got at work, and
began to work down to the mouth of the haven, with a light
breeze. The moment we were clear of the points, or head-lands,
we could make a fair wind of it up channel. The
ship was in stays, pretty well down, under Pendennis, and
the order had been given to swing the head yards. Bill and
Cooper were pulling together at the foretopsail brace, when
the report of a musket was heard quite near the ship. Bill
let go the brace, turned as white as a sheet, and exclaimed,
“I'm gone!” At first, the men near him thought he was
shot, but a gesture towards the boat which had fired, explained

his meaning. The order was given to belay the
head braces, and we waited the result in silence.

The press-gang was soon on board us, and its officer asked
to have the crew mustered. This humiliating order was
obeyed, and all hands of us were called aft. The officer
seemed easily satisfied, until he came to Bill. “What countryman
are you?” he asked. “An American—a Philadelphian,”
answered Bill. “You are an Englishman.” “No,
sir; I was born—” “Over here, across the bay,” interrupted
the officer, with a cool smile, “where your dear wife
is at this moment. Your name is — —, and you are
well known in Falmouth. Get your clothes, and be ready
to go in the boat.”

This settled the matter. Captain Johnston paid Bill his
wages, his chest was lowered into the boat, and the poor
fellow took an affectionate leave of his ship-mates. He told
those around him that his fate was sealed. He was too old
to outlive a war that appeared to have no end, and they
would never trust him on shore. “My foot will never touch
the land again,” he said to Cooper, as he squeezed his young
friend's hand, “and I am to live and die, with a ship for my
prison.”

The loss of poor Bill made us all sad; but there was no
remedy. We got into the offing, and squared away for the
river again. When we reached London, the ship discharged
down at Limehouse, where she lay in a tier of Americans
for some time. We then took in a little ballast, and went
up opposite to the dock gates once more. We next docked
and cleaned the ship, on the Deptford side, and then hauled
into the wet-dock in which we had discharged our flour.

Here the ship lay part of May, all of June, and most of
July, taking in freight for Philadelphia, as it offered. This
gave our people a good deal of spare time, and we were
allowed to go ashore whenever we were not wanted. Cooper
now took me in tow, and many a drift I had with him and
Dan McCoy up to St. Paul's, the parks, palaces, and the
Abbey. A little accident that happened about this time,
attached me to Cooper more than common, and made me
more desirous than ever to cruise in his company.

I was alone, on deck, one Sunday, when I saw a little
dog running about on board a vessel that lay outside of us.

Around the neck of this animal, some one had fastened a
sixpence, by a bit of riband rove through a hole. I thought
this sixpence might be made better use of, in purchasing
some cherries, for which I had a strong longing, and I gave
chase. In attempting to return to our own ship, with the
dog, I fell into the water, between the two vessels. I could
not swim a stroke; and I sang out, lustily, for help. As
good luck would have it, Cooper came on board at that precise
instant; and, hearing my outcry, he sprang down between
the ships, and rescued me from drowning. I thought
I was gone; and my condition made an impression on me
that never will be lost. Had not Cooper accidentally
appeared, just as he did, Ned Myers's yarn would have
ended with this paragraph. I ought to add, that the sixpence
got clear, the dog swimming away with it.

I had another escape from drowning, while we lay in the
docks, having fallen overboard from the jolly-boat, while
making an attempt at sculling. I forget, now, how I was
saved; but then I had the boat and the oar to hold on to. In
the end, it will be seen by what a terrific lesson I finally
learned to swim.

One Sunday we were drifting up around the palace; and
then it was that I told Cooper that the Duke of Kent was my
godfather. He tried to persuade me to make a call; saying
I could do no less than pay this respect to the prince. I had
half a mind to try my hand at a visit; but felt too shy, and
too much afraid. Had I done as Cooper so strongly urged
me to do, one cannot say what might have been the consequences,
or what change might have been brought about in
my fortunes.[1]

One day Mr. Irish was in high glee, having received a
message from Captain Johnston, to inform him that the latter
was pressed! The captain used to dress in a blue long-tog,
drab-breeches and top-boots, when he went ashore.
“He thought he could pass for a gentleman from the country,”
said Mr. Irish, laughing, “but them pressgang chaps

smelt the tar in his very boots!” Cooper was sent to the
rendezvous, with the captain's desk and papers, and the
latter was liberated. We all liked the captain, who was
kind and considerate in his treatment of all hands; but it
was fine fun for us to have “the old fellow” pressed — “old
fellow” of six or eight-and-twenty, as he was then.

About the last of July, we left London, bound home. Our
crew had again undergone some changes. We shipped a
second mate, a New-England man. Jim Russel left us.
We had lost Bill; and, another Bill, a dull Irish lad, who
had gone to Spain, quitted us also. Our crew consisted of
only Spanish Joe; Big Dan; Little Dan; Stephen, the Kennebunk
man; Cooper; a Swede, shipped in London; a man
whose name I have forgotten; and a young man who passed
by the name of Davis, but who was, in truth, — —, a
son of the pilot who had brought us in, and taken us out,
each time we passed up or down the river. This Davis had
sailed in a coaster belonging to his father, and had got pressed
in Sir Home Popham's South-American squadron. They
made him a midshipman; but, disliking the sea, he was determined
to go to America. We had to smuggle him out
of the country, on account of the pressgang; he making his
appearance on board us, suddenly, one night, in the river.

The Sterling was short-handed this passage, mustering
but four hands in a watch. Notwithstanding, we often
reefed in the watch, though Cooper and Little Dan were
both scarcely more than boys. Our mates used to go aloft, and
both were active, powerful men. The cook, too, was a
famous fellow at a drag. In these delicate times, when two
or three days of watch and watch knock up a set of young
men, one looks back with pride to a passage like this, when
fourteen men and boys—four of the latter—brought a good
sized ship across the ocean, reefing in the watch, weathering
many a gale, and thinking nothing of it. I presume half
our people, on a pinch, could have brought the Sterling in.
One of the boys I have mentioned was named John Pugh, a
little fellow the captain had taken as an apprentice in London,
and who was now at sea for the first time in his life.

We had a long passage. Every inch of the way to the
Downs was tide-work. Here we lay several days, waiting
for a wind. It blew fresh from the southwest half of that

summer, and the captain was not willing to go out with a
foul wind. We were surrounded with vessels of war, most
of the Channel Fleet being at anchor around us. This
made a gay scene, and we had plenty of music, and plenty
of saluting. One day all hands turned-to together, and fired
starboard and larboard, until we could see nothing but a few
mast-heads. What it all meant I never heard, but it made
a famous smoke, and a tremendous noise.

A frigate came in, and anchored just ahead of us. She
lowered a boat, and sent a reefer alongside to inform us that
she was His Majesty's ship —; that she had lost all her
anchors but the stream, and she might strike adrift, and he
advised us to get out of her way. The captain held on
that day, however, but next morning she came into us,
sure enough. The ships did not get clear without some
trouble, and we thought it wisest to shift our berth. Once
aweigh, the captain thought it best to turn out of the
Downs, which we did, working through the Straits, and
anchoring under Dungeness, as soon as the flood made.
Here we lay until near sun-set, when we got under way to
try our hand upon the ebb. I believe the skipper had made
up his mind to tide it down to the Land's End, rather than
remain idle any longer. There was a sloop of war lying
in-shore of us, a mile or so, and just as we stretched out
from under the land, she began to telegraph with a signal
station ashore. Soon after, she weighed, and came out,
also. In the middle watch we passed this ship, on opposite
tacks, and learned that an embargo had been laid, and that
we had only saved our distance by some ten or fifteen minutes!
This embargo was to prevent the intelligence of the
Copenhagen expedition from reaching the Danes. That very
day, we passed a convoy of transports, carrying a brigade
from Pendennis Castle to Yarmouth, in order to join the
main fleet. A gun-brig brought us to, and came near pressing
the Swede, under the pretence that being allies of his
king, England had a right to his services. Had not the
man been as obstinate as a bull, and positively refused to
go, I do believe we should have lost him. He was ordered
into the boat at least half-a-dozen times, but swore he would
not budge. Cooper had a little row with this boarding officer,
but was silenced by the captain.

After the news received from the sloop of war, it may be
supposed we did not venture to anchor any where on English
ground. Keeping the channel, we passed the Isle of Wight
several times, losing on the flood, the distance made on the
ebb. At length we got a slant and fetched out into the Atlantic,
heading well to the southward, however. Our passage
was long, even after we got clear, the winds carrying
us down as low as Corvo, which island we made, and then
taking us well north again. We had one very heavy blow
that forced us to scud, the Sterling being one of the wettest
ships that ever floated, when heading up to the sea.

When near the American coast, we spoke an English brig
that gave us an account of the affair between the Leopard
and the Chesapeake, though he made his own countrymen
come out second-best. Bitter were the revilings of Mr. Irish
when the pilot told us the real state of the case. As was
usual with this ship's luck, we tided it up the bay and river,
and got safe alongside of the wharf at Philadelphia, at last.
Here our crew was broken up, of course, and, with the exception
of Jack Pugh, my brother apprentice, and Cooper, I
never saw a single soul of them afterwards. Most of them
went on to New York, and were swallowed up in the great
vortex of seamen. Mr. Irish, I heard, died the next voyage
he made, chief mate of an Indiaman. He was a prime fellow,
and fit to command a ship.

Such was my first voyage at sea, for I count the passage
round from Halifax as nothing. I had been kept in the
cabin, it is true, but our work had been of the most active
kind. The Sterling must have brought up, and been got
under way, between fifty and a hundred times; and as for
tacking, waring, chappelling round, and box-hauling, we had
so much of it by the channel pilots, that the old barky scarce
knew which end was going foremost. In that day, a ship
did not get from the Forelands up to London without some
trouble, and great was our envy of the large blocks and
light cordage of the colliers, which made such easy work
for their men. We singled much of our rigging, the second
voyage up the river, ourselves, and it was a great relief to
the people. A set of grass foresheets, too, that we bought
in Spain, got to be great favourites, though, in the end, they
cost the ship the life of a very valuable man.

Captain Johnston now determined to send me to Wiscasset,
that I might go to school. A Wiscasset schooner, called
the Clarissa, had come into Philadelphia, with freight from
the West Indies, and she was about to sail for home in ballast.
I was put on board as a passenger, and we sailed
about a week after the ship got in from London. Jack Pugh
staid behind, the Sterling being about to load for Ireland.
On board the Clarissa I made the acquaintance of a Philadelphian
born, who was an apprentice to the master of the
schooner, of the name of Jack Mallet. He was a little older
than myself, and we soon became intimate, and, in time,
were fated to see many strange things in company.

The Clarissa went, by the Vineyard Sound and the Shoals,
into Boston. Here she landed a few crates, and then sailed
for Wiscasset, where we arrived after a pretty long passage.
I was kindly received by the mother and family of Captain
Johnston, and immediately sent to school. Shortly after,
we heard of the embargo, and, the Clarissa being laid up,
Jack Mallet became one of my school-mates. We soon
learned that the Sterling had not been able to get out, and,
ere long, Jack Pugh joined our party. A little later, Captain
Johnston arrived, to go into the commercial quarantine with
the rest of us.

This was the long embargo, as sailors called it, and it did
not terminate until Erskine's arrangement was made, in
1809. All this time I remained in Wiscasset, at school,
well treated, and, if anything, too much indulged. Captain
Johnston remained at home all this time, also, and, having
nothing else to do, he set about looking out for a wife. We
had, at school, Jack Pugh, Jack Mallet, and Bill Swett, the
latter being a lad a little older than myself, and a nephew
of the captain's. I was now sixteen, and had nearly gotten
my growth.

As soon as the embargo was removed, Captain Johnston,
accompanied by Swett, started for Philadelphia, to bring the
ship round to New York. From that place he intended to
sail for Liverpool, where Jack Pugh and myself were to join
him, sailing in a ship called the Columbia. This plan was
changed, however, and we were sent round by sea to join
the Sterling again, in the port where I had first found her.

As this was near three years after I had quitted the Heizer's

so unceremoniously, I went to look for them. Their
old neighbours told me they had been gone to Martinique,
about a twelvemonth. This was the last intelligence I ever
heard of them. Bill Swett was now put into the cabin, and
Jack Pugh and myself were sent regularly to duty before
the mast. We lived in the steerage, and had cabin fare;
but, otherwise, had the fortunes of foremast Jacks. Our
freight was wheat in the lower hold, flour betwixt decks, and
cotton on deck. The ship was very deep. Our crew was
good, but both our mates were foreigners.

Nothing occurred until we got near soundings, when it
came on to blow very heavy from the southward and westward.
The ship was running under a close-reefed main-topsail
and foresail, with a tremendous sea on. Just as night
set in, one Harry, a Prussian, came on deck from his supper
to relieve the wheel, and, fetching a lurch as he went aft, he
brought up against the launch, and thence down against our
grass fore-sheet, which had been so great a favourite in the
London passages. This rope had been stretched above the
deck load for a ridge rope, but, being rotten, it gave way
when the poor Prussian struck it, and he went into the sea.
We could do no more than throw him the sky-light, which
was large; but the ship went foaming ahead, leaving the
poor fellow to his fate, in the midst of the hissing waters.
Some of our people thought they saw poor Harry on the
sky-light, but this could not have made much difference in
such a raging sea. It was impossible to round-to, and as
for a boat's living, it was out of the question. This was the
first man I saw lost at sea, and, notwithstanding the severity
of the gale, and the danger of the ship herself, the fate of
this excellent man made us all melancholy. The captain
felt it bitterly, as was evident from his manner. Still, the
thing was unavoidable.

We had begun to shorten sail early in the afternoon, and
Harry was lost in the first dog-watch. A little later the
larboard fore-sheet went, and the sail was split. All hands
were called, and the rags were rolled up, and the gaskets
passed. The ship now laboured so awfully that she began
to leak. The swell was so high that we did not dare to
come by the wind, and the seas would come in, just about
the main chains, meet in board and travel out over her bows

in a way to threaten everything that could be moved. We
lads were lashed at the pumps, and ordered to keep at work;
and to make matters worse, the wheat began to work its
way into the pump-well. While things were in this state,
the main-top-sail split, leaving the ship without a rag of sail
on her.

The Sterling loved to be under water, even in moderate
weather. Many a time have I seen her send the water aft,
into the quarter-deck scuppers, and, as for diving, no loon
was quicker than she. Now, that she was deep and was
rolling her deck-load to the water, it was time to think of
lightening her. The cotton was thrown overboard as fast
as we could, and what the men could not start the seas did.
After a while we eased the ship sensibly, and it was well we
did; the wheat choking the pumps so often, that we had
little opportunity for getting out the water.

I do not now recollect at what hour of this fearful night,
Captain Johnston shouted out to us all to “look out”—and
“hold on.” The ship was broaching-to. Fortunately she
did this at a lucky moment, and, always lying-to well,
though wet, we made much better weather on deck. The
mizzen-staysail was now set to keep her from falling off
into the troughs of the sea. Still the wind blew as hard as
ever. First one sail, then another, got loose, and a hard
time we had to keep the canvass to the yards. Then the
foretopmast went, with a heavy lurch, and soon after the
main, carrying with it the mizzen-top-gallant-mast. We
owed this to the embargo, in my judgment, the ship's rigging
having got damaged lying dry so long. We were all
night clearing the wreck, and the men who used the hatchets,
told us that the wind would cant their tools so violently
that they sometimes struck on the eyes, instead of the edge.
The gale fairly seemed like a hard substance.

We passed a fearful night, working at the pumps, and
endeavouring to take care of the ship. Next morning it
moderated a little, and the vessel was got before the wind,
which was perfectly fair. She could carry but little sail;
though we got up top-gallant-masts for top-masts, as soon as
the sea would permit. About four, I saw the land myself,
and pointed it out to the mate. It was Cape Clear, and we

were heading for it as straight as we could go. We hauled
up to clear it, and ran into the Irish channel. A large fleet
of vessels had gathered in and near the chops of the channel,
in readiness to run into Liverpool by a particular day,
that had been named in the law opening the trade, and great
had been the destruction among them. I do not remember
the number of the ships we saw, but there must have been
more than a hundred. It was afterwards reported, that near
fifty vessels were wrecked on the Irish coast. Almost every
craft we fell in with was more or less dismasted, and one
vessel, a ship called the Liberty, was reported to have gone
down, with every soul on board her.

The weather becoming moderate, all hands of us went
into Liverpool, the best way we could. The Sterling had
good luck in getting up, though we lay some time in the
river before we were able to get into dock. When we got
out the cargo, we found it much damaged, particularly the
wheat. The last was so hot that we could not bear our feet
among it. We got it all out in a few days, when we went
into a dry dock, and repaired.

This visit to Liverpool scattered our crew as if it had
been so much dust in a squall. Most of our men were
pressed, and those that were not, ran. But one man, us
boys excepted, stuck by the ship. The chief mate — a
foreigner, though of what country I never could discover —
lived at a house kept by a handsome landlady. To oblige
this lady, he ordered William Swett and myself to carry a
bucket-full of salt, each, up to her house. The salt came
out of the harness-cask, and we took it ashore openly, but
we were stopped on the quay by a custom-house officer, who
threatened to seize the ship. Such was the penalty for landing
two buckets of Liverpool salt at Liverpool!

Captain Johnston had the matter explained, and he discharged
the mate. Next day, the discharged man and the
second mate were pressed. We got the last, who was a
Swede, clear; and the chief mate, in the end, made his
escape, and found his way back to New York. Among
those impressed, was Jack Pugh, who having been bound
in London, we did not dare show his papers. The captain
tried hard to get the boy clear, but without success. I never

saw poor Jack after this; though I learn he ran from the
market-boat of the guard-ship, made his way back to Wiscasset,
where he stayed some time, then shipped, and was
lost at sea.