University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

At length we got a new crew, and sailed for home. We
had several passengers on board, masters of American ships
who could go back themselves, but not carry their vessels with
them, on account of certain liberties the last had taken with
the laws. These persons were called “embargo captains.”
One of them, a Captain B—, kept Captain Johnston's
watch, and got so much into his confidence and favour, that
he gave him the vessel in the end. The passage home was
stormy and long, but offered nothing remarkable. A non-importation
law had been passed during our absence, and
our ship was seized in New York in consequence of having
a cargo of English salt. We had taken the precaution,
however, to have the salt cleared in Liverpool, and put afloat
before the day named in the law, and got clear after a detention
of two months. Salt rose so much in the interval,
that the seizure turned out to be a good thing for the owners.

While the ship was lying off the Battery, on her return
from this voyage, and before she had hauled in, a boat came
alongside with a young man in her in naval uniform. This
was Cooper, who, in pulling across to go aboard his own
vessel, had recognised our mast-heads, and now came to
look at us. This was the last time I met him, until the year
1843; or, for thirty-four years.

We now loaded with naval stores, and cleared again for
Liverpool. Bill Swett did not make this voyage with us,
the cook acting as steward. We had good passages out and
home, experiencing no detention or accidents. In the spring
of 1810, Captain Johnston gave the ship to Captain B—,
who carried us to Liverpool for the third time. Nothing

took place this voyage either, worthy of being mentioned,
the ship getting back in good season. We now took in a
cargo of staves for Limerick. Off the Hook we were
brought-to by the Indian sloop-of-war, one of the Halifax
cruisers, a squadron in company. Several vessels were
coming out at the same time, and among them were several
of the clippers in the French trade. The Amiable Matilda
and the Colt went to windward of the Englishmen as if the
last had been at anchor; but the Tameahmeah, when nearest
to the English, got her yards locked in stays, and was
captured. We saw all this, and felt, as was natural to men
who beheld such things enacted at the mouth of their own
port. Our passages both ways were pleasant, and nothing
occurred out of the usual course. I fell in with a press-gang,
however, in Limerick, which would have nabbed me,
but for a party of Irishmen, who showed fight and frightened
the fellows so much that I got clear. Once before, I had
been in the hands of these vermin in Liverpool, but Captain
Johnston had got me clear by means of my indentures. I
was acting as second-mate this voyage.

On our return home, the ship was ordered to Charleston
to get a cargo of yellow pine, under a contract. Captain
B— was still in command, my old master, Captain Johnston,
being then at home, occupied in building a new ship.
I never saw this kind-hearted and indulgent seaman until
the year 1842, when I made a journey to Wiscasset expressly
to see him. Captain B— and myself were never
very good friends, and I was getting to be impatient of his
authority; but I still stuck by the ship.

We had an ordinary run to Charleston, and began to
prepare for the reception of our cargo. At this time, there
were two French privateers on the southern coast, that did
a great deal of damage to our trade. One went into Savannah,
and got burned, for her pains; and the other came
into Charleston, and narrowly escaped the same fate. A
mob collected—made a fire-raft, and came alongside of our
ship, demanding some tar. To own the truth, though then
clothed with all the dignity of a “Dicky,”[1] I liked the fun,
and offered no resistance. Bill Swett had come in, in a ship

called the United States; and he was on board the Sterling,
at the time, on a visit to me. We two, off hatches, and
whipped a barrel of tar on deck; which we turned over to
the raftsmen, with our hearty good wishes for their success.
All this was, legally, very wrong; but, I still think, it was
not so very far from being morally just; at least, as regards
the privateersmen. The attempt failed, however, and those
implicated were blamed a great deal more than they would
have been, had they burned up the Frenchmen's eye-bolts.
It is bad to fail, in a legal undertaking; but success is indispensable
for forgiveness, to one that is illegal.

That night, Captain B— and the chief mate, came
down upon me, like a gust, for having parted with the tar.
They concluded their lecture, by threatening to work me
up. Bill Swett was by, and he got his share of the dose.
When we were left to ourselves, we held a council of war,
about future proceedings. Our crew had run, to a man, the
cook excepted, as usually happens, in Charleston; and we
brought in the cook, as a counsellor. This man told me,
that he had overheard the captain and mate laying a plan to
give me a threshing, as soon as I had turned in. Bill, now,
frankly proposed that I should run, as well as himself; for
he had already left his ship; and our plan was soon laid.
Bill went ashore, and brought a boat down under the bows
of the ship, and I passed my dunnage into her, by going
through the forecastle; I then left the Sterling, for ever,
never putting my foot on board of her again. I saw her,
once or twice, afterwards, at a distance, and she always
looked like a sort of home to me. She was subsequently
lost, on the eastern coast, Captain Johnston still owning her,
and being actually on board her, though only as a passenger.
I had been out in her twelve times, from country to country,
besides several short runs, from port to port. She always
seemed natural to me; and I had got to know every timber
and stick about her. I felt more, in quitting this ship,
than I did in quitting Halifax. This desertion was the third
great error of my life. The first was, quitting those with
whom I had been left by my father; the second, abandoning
my good friends, the Heizers; and the third, leaving the
Sterling. Had Captain Johnston been in the ship, I never
should have dreamed of running. He was always kind to

me; and, if he failed in justice, it was on the side of indulgence.
Had I continued with him, I make no doubt, my
career would have been very different from what it has since
turned out to be; and, I fear, I must refer one of the very
bad habits, that afterwards marred my fortunes, that of
drinking too much, to this act. Still, it will be remembered,
I was only nineteen, loved adventure, and detested Captain
B—.

After this exploit, Swett and I kept housed for a week.
He then got into a ship called the President, and I into another
called the Tontine, and both sailed for New York,
where we arrived within a few days of each other. We
now shipped together in a vessel called the Jane, bound to
Limerick. This was near the close of the year 1811. Our
passage out was tremendously bad, and we met with some
serious accidents to our people. We were not far from the
mouth of the Irish channel when the ship broached-to, in
scudding under the foresail and main-top-sail, Bill Swett being
at the helm. The watch below ran on deck and hauled
up the foresail, without orders, to prevent the ship from going
down stern foremost, the yards being square. As the
ship came-to, she took a sea in, on her starboard side, which
drove poor Bill to leeward, under some water-casks and
boards, beating in two of his ribs. Both mates were injured
also, and were off duty in consequence for several weeks.
The plank sheer was ripped off the vessel from aft to amidships,
as neatly as if it had been done by the carpenters.
We could look down among the timbers the same as if the
vessel were on the stocks.

The men braced up the after-yards, and then the ship was
lying-to under a close-reefed main-top-sail. After this, she
did well enough. We now passed the hurt below, and got
tarred canvass over the timber-heads, and managed to keep
out the water. Next day we made sail for our port. It
blowing too fresh to get a pilot, we ran into a roadstead at
the mouth of the Shannon, and anchored with both bowers.
We rode out the gale, and then went up to Limerick. Here
all hands got well, and returned to duty. In due time, we
sailed for home in ballast. As we came into the Hook, we
were hailed by a gun-boat, and heard of the “Little Embargo.”

The question now came up seriously between Bill and
myself, what was best to be done. I was for going to Wiscasset,
like two prodigals, own our fault, and endeavour to
amend. Bill thought otherwise. Now we were cast ashore,
without employment, he thought it more manly to try and
shift for ourselves. He had an uncle who was a captain of
artillery, and who was then stationed on Governor's Island,
and we took him into our councils. This gentleman treated
us kindly, and kept us with him on the island for two days.
Finding his nephew bent on doing something for himself, he
gave us a letter to Lt. Trenchard, of the navy, by whom
we were both shipped for the service. Swett got a master's-mate's
berth, and I was offered the same, but felt too much
afraid of myself to accept it. I entered the navy, then, for
the first time, as a common Jack.

This was a very short time before war was declared, and
a large flotilla of gun-boats was getting ready for the New
York station. Bill was put on board of No. 112, and I was
ordered to No. 107, Sailing-Master Costigan. Soon after,
we were all employed in fitting the Essex for sea; and while
thus occupied the Declaration of War actually arrived. On
this occasion I got drunk, for the second time in my life. A
quantity of whiskey was started into a tub, and all hands
drank to the success of the conflict. A little upset me, then,
nor would I have drunk anything, but for the persuasions
of some of my Wiscasset acquaintances, of whom there
were several in the ship. I advise all young men, who feel
no desire to drink, to follow their own propensities, and not
to yield themselves up, body and soul, to the thoughtless
persuasions of others. There is no real good-fellowship in
swilling rum and whiskey; but the taste, once acquired, is
hard to cure. I never drank much, as to quantity, but a
little filled me with the love of mischief, and that little served
to press me down for all the more valuable years of my life;
valuable, as to the advancement of my worldly interests,
though I can scarcely say I began really to live, as a creature
of God's should live, to honour his name and serve his
ends, until the year 1839.

After the Essex was fitted out, the flotilla cruised in the
Sound, and was kept generally on the look-out, about the
waters of New York. Towards the end of the season, our

boat, with several others, was lying abreast of the Yard,
when orders came off to meet the Yard Commander, Captain
Chauncey, on the wharf. Here, this officer addressed
us, and said he was about to proceed to Lake Ontario, to
take command, and asking who would volunteer to go with
him. This was agreeable news to us, for we hated the gun-boats,
and would go anywhere to be quit of them. Every
man and boy volunteered. We got twenty-four hours' liberty,
with a few dollars in money, and when this scrape was
over every man returned, and we embarked in a sloop for
Albany. Our draft contained near 140 men, and was commanded
by Mr. Mix, then a sailing-master, but who died a
commander a few years since. Messrs. Osgood and Mallaby
were also with us, and two midshipmen, viz: Messrs.
Sands and Livingston. The former of these young gentlemen
is now a commander, but I do not know what became
of Mr. Livingston. We had also two master's-mates,
Messrs. Bogardus and Emory.

On reaching Albany, we paid a visit to the Governor,
gave him three cheers, got some good cheer in return, and
were all stowed in wagons, a mess in each, before his door.
We now took to our land tacks, and a merry time we had
of it. Our first day's run was to a place called Schenectady,
and here the officers found an empty house, and
berthed us all together, fastening the doors. This did not
suit our notions of a land cruise, and we began to grumble.
There was a regular hard horse of a boatswain's-mate with
us, of the name of McNally. This man had been in the
service a long time, and was a thorough man-of-war's man.
He had collected twenty-four of us, whom he called his
`disciples,' and shamed am I to say, I was one. McNally
called all hands on the upper deck, as he called it, that is to
say, in the garret, and made us a speech. He said this was
no way to treat volunteers, and proposed that we should
“unship the awning.” We rigged pries, and, first singing
out, “stand from under,” hove one half of the roof into the
street, and the other into the garden. We then gave three
cheers at our success. The officers now came down, and
gave us a lecture. But we made out so good a case, that
they let us run till morning, when every soul was back and
mustered in the wagons. In this way we went through the

country, cracking our jokes, laughing, and noting all oddities
that crossed our course. I believe we were ten or
twelve days working our way through the state, to Oswego.
At Onondago Lake we got into boats, and did better than in
the wagons. At a village on the lake shore, the people
were very bitter against us, and we had some difficulty.
The word went among us they were Scotch, from the Canadas,
but of this I know nothing. We heard in the morning,
however, that most of our officers were in limbo, and we
crossed and marched up a hill, intending to burn, sink, and
destroy, if they were not liberated. Mischief was prevented
by the appearance of Mr. Mix, with the other gentlemen,
and we pushed off without coming to blows.

It came on to rain very hard, and we fetched up at a solitary
house in the woods, and tried to get quarters. These
were denied us, and we were told to shift for ourselves.
This we did in a large barn, where we made good stowage
until morning. In the night, we caught the owner coming
about with a lantern to set fire to the barn, and we carried
him down to a boat, and lashed him there until morning,
letting the rain wash all the combustible matter out of him.
That day we reached Oswego Falls, where a party of us
were stationed some time, running boats over, and carrying
stores across the portage.

When everything reached Oswego, all hands turned to,
to equip some lake craft that had been bought for the service.
These were schooners, salt droggers, of about sixty
or eighty tons. All we did at Oswego, however, was to
load these vessels, some six or eight in all, and put to sea.
I went off in one of the first, a vessel called the Fair American.
Having no armaments, we sailed in the night, to
avoid John Bull's cruisers, of which there were several out
at the time. As we got in with some islands, at no great
distance from Sackett's Harbour, we fell in with the Oneida's
launch, which was always kept in the offing at night, rowing,
or sailing, guard. Bill Swett was in her, and we then
met for the first time on fresh water. I now learned that
Jack Mallet was on the station, too, whom I had not fallen
in with since we parted at Wiscasset, more than three years
before. A fortnight later I found him, acting as boatswain

of the Julia, Sailing-Master Trant, a craft I have every
reason to remember as long as I shall live.

The day after I reached the harbour, I was ordered on
board the Scourge. This vessel was English-built, and had
been captured before the war, and condemned, for violating
the revenue laws, under the name of the Lord Nelson, by
the Oneida 16, Lt. Com. Woolsey—the only cruiser we then
had on the lake. This craft was unfit for her duty, but time
pressed, and no better offered. Bulwarks had been raised
on her, and she mounted eight sixes, in regular broadside.
Her accommodations were bad enough, and she was so tender,
that we could do little or nothing with her in a blow.
It was often prognosticated that she would prove our coffin.
Besides Mr. Osgood, who was put in command of this vessel,
we had Mr. Bogardus, and Mr. Livingston, as officers. We
must have had about forty-five souls on board, all told. We
did not get this schooner out that season, however.

The commodore arriving, and an expedition against Kingston
being in the wind, a party of us volunteered from the
Scourge, to go on board the Oneida. This was in November,
rather a latish month for active service on those waters.
The brig went out in company with the Conquest, Hamilton,
Governor Tompkins, Pert, Julia, and Growler, schooners.
These last craft were all merchantmen, mostly without quarters,
and scarcely fit for the duty on which they were employed.
The Oneida was a warm little brig, of sixteen 24
lb. carronades, but as dull as a transport. She had been
built to cross the bars of the American harbours, and would
not travel to windward.

We went off the False Ducks, where we made the Royal
George, a ship the English had built expressly to overlay
the Oneida, two or three years before, and which was big
enough to eat us. Her officers, however, did not belong to
the Royal Navy; and we made such a show of schooners,
that, though she had herself a vessel or two in company, she
did not choose to wait for us. We chased her into the Bay
of Quinté, and there we lost her in the darkness. Next
morning, however, we saw her at anchor in the channel that
leads to Kingston. A general chase now commenced, and
we ran down into the bay, and engaged the ship and batteries,
as close as we could well get. The firing was sharp

on both sides, and it lasted a great while. I was stationed
at a gun, as her second captain, and was too busy to see
much; but I know we kept our piece speaking as fast as we
could, for a good bit. We drove the Royal George from a
second anchorage, quite up to a berth abreast of the town;
and it was said that her people actually deserted her, at one
time. We gave her nothing but round-shot from our gun,
and these we gave her with all our hearts. Whenever we
noticed the shore, a stand of grape was added.

I know nothing of the damage done the enemy. We had
the best of it, so far as I could see; and I think, if the weather
had not compelled us to haul off, something serious
might have been done. As it was, we beat out with flying
colours, and anchored a few miles from the light.

These were the first shot I ever saw fired in anger. Our
brig had one man killed and three wounded, and she was
somewhat injured aloft. One shot came in not far from my
gun, and scattered lots of cat-tails, breaking in the hammock-cloths.
This was the nearest chance I ran, that day;
and, on the whole, I think we escaped pretty well. On our
return to the harbour, the ten Scourges who had volunteered
for the cruise, returned to their own schooner. None
of us were hurt, though all of us were half frozen, the water
freezing as fast as it fell.

Shortly after both sides went into winter quarters, and
both sides commenced building. We launched a ship called
the Madison, about this time, and we laid the keel of another,
that was named the Pike. What John Bull was
about is more than I can say, though the next season
showed he had not been idle. The navigation did not absolutely
close, notwithstanding, until December.

Our vessels were moored about the harbour, and we were
all frozen in, as a matter of course. Around each craft,
however, a space was kept cut, to form a sort of ditch, in
order to prevent being boarded. Parties were regularly stationed
to defend the Madison, and, in the days, we worked
at her rigging, and at that of the Pike, in gangs. Our larboard
guns were landed, and placed in a block-house, while
the starboard were kept mounted. My station was that of
captain of one of the guns that remained.

The winter lasted more than four months, and we made

good times of it. We often went after wood, and occasionally
we knocked over a deer. We had a target out on the
lake, and this we practised on, making ourselves rather
expert cannoneers. Now and then they rowsed us out on a
false alarm, but I know of no serious attempt's being made
by the enemy, to molest us.

The lake was fit to navigate about the middle of April.
Somewhere about the 20th[2] the soldiers began to embark,
to the number of 1700 men. A company came on board
the Scourge, and they filled us chock-a-block. It came on
to blow, and we were obliged to keep these poor fellows,
cramped as we were, most of the time on deck, exposed to
rain and storm. On the 25th we got out, rather a showy
force altogether, though there was not much service in our
small craft. We had a ship, a brig, and twelve schooners,
fourteen sail in all. The next morning we were off Little
York, having sailed with a fair wind. All hands anchored
about a mile from the beach. I volunteered to go in a boat,
to carry soldiers ashore. Each of us brought across the
lake two of these boats in tow, but we had lost one of ours,
dragging her after us in a staggering breeze. I got into
the one that was left, and we put half our soldiers in her,
and shoved off. We had little or no order in landing, each
boat pulling as hard as she could. The English blazed
away at us, concealed in a wood, and our men fired back
again from the boat. I never was more disappointed in
men, than I was in the soldiers. They were mostly tall,
pale-looking Yankees, half dead with sickness and the bad
weather—so mealy, indeed, that half of them could not take
their grog, which, by this time, I had got to think a bad
sign. As soon as they got near the enemy, however, they
became wide awake, pointed out to each other where to aim,
and many of them actually jumped into the water, in order
to get the sooner ashore. No men could have behaved better,
for I confess frankly I did not like the work at all. It
is no fun to pull in under a sharp fire, with one's back to
his enemy, and nothing but an oar to amuse himself with.
The shot flew pretty thick, and two of our oars were split.
This was all done with musketry, no heavy guns being used

at this place. I landed twice in this way, but the danger
was principally in the first affair. There was fighting up
on the bank, but it gave us no trouble. Mr. Livingston
commanded the boat.

When we got back to the schooner, we found her lifting
her anchors. Several of the smaller craft were now ordered
up the bay, to open on the batteries nearer to the town. We
were the third from the van, and we all anchored within
canister range. We heard a magazine blow up, as we stood
in, and this brought three cheers from us. We now had
some sharp work with the batteries, keeping up a steady fire.
The schooner ahead of us had to cut, and she shifted her
berth outside of us. The leading schooner, however, held
on. In the midst of it all, we heard cheers down the line,
and presently we saw the commodore pulling in among us,
in his gig. He came on board us, and we greeted him with
three cheers. While he was on the quarter-deck, a hot shot
struck the upper part of the after-port, cut all the boarding-pikes
adrift from the main-boom, and wounded a man named
Lemuel Bryant, who leaped from his quarters and fell at my
feet. His clothes were all on fire when he fell, and, after
putting them out, the commodore himself ordered me to pass
him below. The old man spoke encouragingly to us, and a
little thing took place that drew his attention to my crew.
Two of the trucks of the gun we were fighting had been
carried away, and I determined to shift over its opposite.
My crew were five negroes, strapping fellows, and as strong
as jackasses. The gun was called the Black Joke. Shoving
the disabled gun out of the way, these chaps crossed the
deck, unhooked the breechings and gun-tackles, raised the
piece from the deck, and placed it in the vacant port. The
commodore commended us, and called out, “that is quick
work, my lads!” In less than three minutes, I am certain,
we were playing on the enemy with the fresh gun.

As for the old man, he pulled through the fire as coolly
as if it were only a snow-balling scrape, though many a poor
fellow lost the number of his mess in the boats that day.
When he left us, we cheered him again. He had not left
us long, before we heard an awful explosion on shore. Stones
as big as my two fists fell on board of us, though nobody
was hurt by them. We cheered, thinking some dire calamity

had befallen the enemy. The firing ceased soon after
this explosion, though one English gun held on, under the
bank, for some little time.