University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SOLDIER'S PROGRESS.

Beloved and respected by all who were worthy
of his esteem, our young ensign applied himself
incessantly to the study of military tactics, and
in the course of three months outstript all his
competitors in the theory of war, and ardently
longed for an honorable occasion to reduce this
theory to practice. During this period he had
the satisfaction of becoming acquainted with many
persons of worth and distinction, from whose
conversation, manners, and experience, he acquired
no little benefit.

About the last of February, at Mrs. Madison's
levee, he was introduced to commodore Bainbridge,
who had just returned from a commercial
voyage, for the prosecution of which he had obtained
a furlough from the navy department. This
gallant officer was now thirty-eight years of age,
and for twenty years had been a “ploughman of the

deep.” He served with honor and success during
the contest with France, and in the year eighteen
hundred, received a captain's commission, when
he was appointed to the command of the frigate
George Washington, in which he shortly afterwards
sailed for Algiers with the presents which
the United States were by treaty bound to make
to that regency. From Algiers he visited Constantinople,
where he gave the Turks a high idea
of the naval character of the United States, and
returned to America in the month of April in the
following year. In a few months after, he received
the command of the frigate Essex, in which he
again scoured the Mediterranean, to assist in
chastising the insolence of the Barbarians, and
after a cruise of twelve months, returned to New-York.

In the year one thousand eight hundred and
three, he was appointed to command the Philadelphia,
a frigate built by the merchants of the city
whose name she bore, and by them presented to
the government. In her he once more sailed for
the Mediterranean to join the American squadron
under the command of commodore Preble. The
unfortunate fate of this vessel has already been
alluded to in a former chapter. Bainbridge,
Gibbon, and the rest, became the captives of a
barbarous and mercenary foe.

When the termination of the Tripolitan war
restored Bainbridge, with his gallant associates,
to the bosom of their sympathising country, he
was received (says his biographer) “rather as
a returning conqueror than as a vanquished prisoner—a
most unequivocal proof of public confidence,
since that merit must indeed be sterling
which could stand the test of such misfortunes.”

Young Willoughby failed not to cultivate so
valuable an acquaintance. In the society of the
brave and generous only, he could find souls congenial
to his own; and as the sentiment was
mutual, they were equally assiduous to conciliate
his esteem. His intimacy with Bainbridge, however,
was soon interrupted by the departure of
that gentleman for New-England, he having been
appointed to the command of the navy-yard at
Charlestown in Massachusetts, and of the public
vessels on the eastern station.

About the same time, in consequence of some
new arrangements in the organization of the army,
the officers of several regiments were transferred
to others, and ensign Willoughby received
orders to report himself to the commandant of a
military post in the neighborhood of Norfolk. It
was early in March when he obeyed these orders,
and performed a journey of above two hundred
miles, over roads which the season had rendered
horrid beyond description. The general aspect
of the country was as dreary as the hoisterous
month in which he surveyed it, and every thing
conspired to make the change disagreeable. But
the duty of obedience was familiar to George,
and even where its performance was painful, it
was always accompanied with cheerfulness.

As the spring advanced, however, our hero
found his new situation very pleasant. When off
duty he enjoyed frequent excursions through the
beautiful scenes of Virginia—sometimes in contemplative
solitude, but more frequently in the
gay company of military and naval officers. The
probability that an opportunity would be soon
afforded of distinguishing themselves in the service
of their country, was the “untired theme,”

which gave an additional zest to these enjoyments,
cherished the love of glory in their bosoms, and
kept alive the hope of its speedy gratification.

Although George thought as a hero, “he yet
felt as a man.” Glory was the idol of his soul,
but it was the glory of asserting and defending
the rights of his country, not that of butchering his
fellow-creatures. He knew that the golden halo
might be, and often had been, won in an unrighteous
cause; but he felt that one drop of unnecessary
blood would so dim its lustre in the eye of virtue,
that a genuine patriot would behold it with
horror and spurn it with contempt. Much as he
wished for fame, he would never seek it out of the
path of duty; if it were attainable in that path, he
was willing to encounter danger in its direst form
to reach the glittering goal. He wished for war,
because he thought it the only measure by which
the honor and rights of his country could be
maintained. “Had not the patriots of my father's
day,” thought he, “resorted to the same dreadful
alternative, when their rights were invaded,
their sons would at this day have had no rights to
protect; and ought we not to do as much for our
posterity as our fathers have done for us?”

The genuine principles of patriotism had been
inculcated into him from an infant; the love of
country was interwoven with his very existence;
and a desire of serving her was the ruling passion
of his heart. The conversation of his father,
the education of his childhood, and the books
he had read, all tended to render this principle
permanent and lasting. It was too deep-rooted
ever to be effaced. It occupied his daily
thoughts, and intruded on his midnight dreams;
it was the theme of his conversation in company,

and the subject of his meditations in all his
private walks.

In one of his solitary rambles, through the
most romantic parts of Norfolk county,

he found himself bewildered with cross-roads,
and stopped at a genteel-looking house to inquire
the way to the village, where he had left
his horse. The sun had set, and the sombre
shades of evening had already begun to descend
on the valleys, as he knocked at the door. He
was received in a very courteous manner, by a
gentleman, who informed him that the village
was five miles distant, and the road not easily explored
by a stranger in darkness; he was therefore
pressed to tarry all night, to which, after
some common-place apologies for the intrusion,
he consented, and was entertained with all that
generous hospitality which so eminently characterises
the inhabitants of Virginia.

Every thing like reserve, on either side, was
quickly dissipated, and both host and guest became
mutually pleased with each other. The
name of the gentleman to whom our hero was
thus accidentally introduced was Vaughan, a
very respectable citizen, and an excellent man.
He soon discovered in his guest a mind of no
common cast, and listened with admiration to sentiments
and aphorisms that would have become
the lips of aged wisdom. Though the opinions
and arguments of George were always expressed
with peculiar modesty, they yet displayed a depth
of thinking and a knowledge of the world that
seldom failed of raising the speaker in the estimation
of his opponent.

On the present occasion our hero had imperceptibly
introduced his favourite topic, the necessity
of demanding of England a redress of national
grievances, and of making the demand
from the cannon's mouth. He entertained no
doubt that government felt this necessity, and that
congress would shortly pass a law to that effect.
But whatever might have been the opinion of his
host as to the necessity of a war, that gentleman
doubted the speedy occurrence of such an event.
Negociation appeared to be the favorite policy
of the government, and that policy would probably
still be adhered to. Many arguments were
used in support of these different opinions.

“It is natural to believe what we wish,” at
length observed Vaughan; “and you gentlemen
of the army appear to be much more sanguine on
this point than those who are attached to the
navy. The reason may be, that many of the latter
already wear those laurels which the former
are so eager to acquire.”

“Some gentlemen of the navy, with whom I
have conversed,” replied George, are not less sanguine
on this subject than myself. The gallant
Bainbridge, several weeks since, expressed it as
his decided opinion that the present session of
congress would not terminate without a declaration
of war.”

“Do you know lieutenant Elliot?” asked
Vaughan.

“Of the army?”

“No, sir, of the Navy.”

“Only by report,” replied George; “his father,
Robert Elliot, was unfortunately slain by
the Indians[1] in the same campaign, under general

Wayne, in which my father lost a hand. I
have often heard my father speak of him as a
very particular friend, and that his death was the
greatest misfortune he had, at that time, ever met
with. Of the son I know nothing, but have
heard that he sustained the reputation of a brave
young man while a midshipman in the Mediterranean.
He has since been promoted.”

“Yes, sir, in June, eighteen hundred and ten,
he was appointed acting lieutenant on board the
Enterprize; and has since been sent with dispatches
to Mr. Pinkney, our minister in London.
Last year he served in the John Adams until September,
when he was transferred to the Argus, on
board of which he now acts as first lieutenant,
although at present he is on a short furlough.
During all this time, he has been preparing his
mind for the severe duties of his profession, under
the same impression which actuates yourself, the
hope of a speedy opportunity of signalizing himself
in his country's service.”

“And does not that hope revive at the present
indications of a rupture with England?” asked
George.

“He can perceive no such indications,” replied
Vaughan; “or else he interprets them wrong.
To use the language of an elegant writer, he is
`fatigued in the chase of glory's brilliant visions
that still sparkle over his head, and still
elude his grasp;' he has therefore resigned his
mind to the sway of the more endearing passions.”

“I understand you,” said George with a smile,
“he is in love.”

“To-morrow, sir,” replied Vaughan, “with the
permission of Providence, I shall call him son.”

“I beg leave to congratulate you, sir, on the accession
to your family of so amiable a member.”

“I thank you, sir; and in return, if the duties of
your profession will not imperiously forbid it, I
shall take the liberty of insisting that you tarry
with us to-morrow, and honor the ceremony with
your presence.”

After some hesitation, our hero consented, and
it now growing late, he was conducted to a
chamber, and left to repose.

At breakfast, the next morning, (which was
Sunday) he was introduced to the intended bride,
the lovely Frances, blushing like the season, and,
in a short time after, to the son of his father's
friend, the gallant youth who was about to lead
her to the altar of Hymen. They seemed mated
by Heaven, and worthy of each other.

On the morning following their nuptials our hero
bid the happy pair adieu, and taking a respectful
leave of their hospitable parents, proceeded to the
village for his horse, and returned to his quarters.
Here an unexpected pleasure awaited him. A
packet of letters was put into his hands, which he
was informed had been left by a gentleman from
Washington, who would call on him in the course
of the day. He eagerly tore open the envelope,
and in the superscriptions of four letters, recognized
the hands of Amelia, Ellen, Morse, and his
aunt; but had scarcely broken the seal of the
first, when his cousin Aylwin seized him by the
hand.

The pleasure of this meeting was lively and
reciprocal. George had a thousand fond inquiries
to make, and he proposed them with such rapidity

that Aylwin found it difficult to answer one
in ten. At length, seizing the advantage of a
momentary pause, he exclaimed:

“To answer all your questions at once, your
friends in Boston are all well in health, sound in
intellect, and successful in business. For the
state of their hearts, I refer you to their epistles.
I arrived in Washington on Wednesday last, and
should have been here yesterday, but for the carelessness
of a stage-driver, who upset the carriage
and broke an axle-tree.”

“But what brought you to the seat of government?”

“The invitation of captain Hull. I have applied
to the department for a sailing-master's war-rant,
which will probably be ready for me on my
return. I shall then join the Constitution at
Annapolis.”

“A fine frigate and a noble commander,” exclaimed
George; “may you load her with
laurels.”

“Amen,” responded Aylwin, “let me but
have the opportunity and receive the orders to
lay her alongside of the heaviest frigate in the
British navy—hull to hull—then for the `unprofitable
contest of trying which can do the other
the most harm.' What is the name of the English
frigate in the roads?”

“The Macedonian, captain Carden; and that
with the American flag is the United States, commanded
by Decatur. Which would you bet on
in case of a contest?”

“On the Macedonian,” answered Aylwin, provided
she was navigated by American seamen.
As it is, on the United States. Heaven grant
they may come as near to each other after war

is declared as they are now—I wish it for the
honor of the American flag.”

“And captain Carden wishes it for the honor of
the British flag,” said George; “he is confident
that with his frigate he could take Decatur's.”

“Has he ever expressed such a confidence?”

“He has,” replied George; “I had the honor of
dining at the British consul's last week, at whose
table Decatur and Carden were both present, besides
a number of gentlemen of the army and
navy, when the conversation turned on the comparative
force of those two ships, their armament,
and the number as well as excellence of their
crews. Captain Carden then stated, that a British
thirty-eight gun frigate was fully ascertained,
by experience, to be the most efficient single-decked
vessel that ever swam the ocean; that
any increase of size was worse than useless, as it
only rendered them more unmanageable, and concluded
by saying, that from experience he felt
satisfied he could take the United States with the
Macedonian.”

“What arrogant presumption!”

“He palliated it,” continued George, “by adding,
that he disclaimed any intention to question
the skill or bravery of the American officers or
seamen.”

“Why, they once termed our frigates seventy-fours
in disguise,” observed Aylwin.

“Yes, and they have also called them `cock-boats
with a piece of striped bunting at the masthead.'
But whatever they may think of our little
navy, an opportunity will soon offer for testing
their opinion.”

“I hope so,” exclaimed Aylwin. “But read
your letters, for I must leave you for a short time,

being charged with dispatches for several of the
`sons of the deep,' which cannot be delivered
too soon.”

“I shall expect you at dinner.”

“You had better not,” replied Aylwin, “for I
shall board the United States, and there is too
much hospitality among us sailors to suffer a
comrade to depart empty. Adieu till evening.”

“But do you bring no news from Washington?”
inquired George. “How stands the political
thermometer?”

“Up to seventy-six, which I take to be blood
heat. The war-fever has not abated, notwithstanding
all the cooling prescriptions of certain
political quacks.”

“But does the disorder assume any new symptoms,
of a less equivocal complexion?”

“Yes, both new and unequivocal,” replied
Aylwin. “The governor of Michigan territory is
now at Washington, and daily closeted with the
secretary of war. It is whispered that they are
laying their heads together to plan a campaign
against Upper Canada.”

“Do you believe these whispers, Aylwin, or
are you merely jesting?

“So far am I from jesting on this subject, that
one object of my journey to Norfolk is to give
you timely notice, in order that you may petition
for a transfer, and join the little army Hull is
about raising; for I know that you would wish to
be actively engaged in the earliest operations
against our enemy—that is to be.”

“I owe you a thousand thanks, my dear cousin,”
replied George; “and I will instantly forward
an application to the war department. The
friendship which Eustis has ever professed for
my father may induce him to serve his son.”

“I have no doubt of it. But, once more and
for the last time, adieu till evening.”

For about a fortnight, the society of his cousin
added much to the felicity of George, and proved
a valuable acquisition to the little circle of his
particular friends. But the pleasure resulting
from such intercourse was limited to that period,
for on the twenty-first day of April, Aylwin was
summoned to Washington, obtained his warrant
on the twenty-fourth, and immediately joined his
frigate; and on the tenth of May George received
orders which removed him far from those friends
who had chosen a path to glory on the stormy
main.