University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SAILOR'S STORY.

In the afternoon our hero visited the wounded
son of Neptune, whom he found sitting up in his
chamber, and apparently much better. He seized
George by the hand as he approached him,
and requested that he would grant him half an
hour's conversation, if his engagements would
permit. This request was very cheerfully complied
with.

“You see, I am no longer on my beam-ends,”
said he, as our hero took a seat by his side;
“thanks to the humanity and kindness of those
who made the enemy sheer off, and saved me
from foundering when overpowered and beaten
by superior force. I hope to be refitted and
afloat again in a day or two, when I have it in
contemplation to evince my gratitude in the only
way I can. I owe my life to the humanity of
Americans, and though I can make no suitable return
to these hospitable individuals in particular,
I may serve them by being a benefit to the nation
at large. I will therefore enter the American
navy, and spend the last drop of my blood in
their service. On this subject I wished to have
your opinion, as I shall be a fellow-laborer with
yourself, though on a different element.”

“But do you feel no repugnance to taking up
arms against your own country?”

“I have no country!” he returned, with a sigh.
“You may perhaps conjecture, from my speech,
that I was born in Ireland, and so I was; but
Ireland has lost its rank among the nations of the
earth; it groans in vassalage, and its inhabitants
are trodden under foot by British tyranny. Ireland
is enslaved, and many Irishmen are compelled to
fight the battles of their oppressors—perdition
seize the scoundrel who does it from choice! I
owe no allegiance to England. If such a tie ever
existed, it was cut with the heart-strings of my
father's family, who met destruction for daring
to express their abhorrence of the tyranny they
could not approve. Many long years of misery
have I dragged out in the service of England,
until an excellent constitution has become broken,
and, what is still worse, a noble spirit debased—the
manners and sentiments of a gentleman
degraded and contaminated by the vulgar
servile inmates of an English forecastle! You
look surprised, sir.”

“I am, indeed. You are no common sailor.”

“I was never designed for one. My father,
(who had two sons and one daughter) was not
rich, but an opulent maternal uncle took the
charge of our education, and spared neither
pains nor expense to render it complete. My
brother graduated at Trinity College, and was
studying law under the immortal Emmett, when
that inflexible patriot raised his hand and voice
in the cause of suffering Ireland. You know the
fate of that godlike man, and most of his compatriots—my
poor brother's was sealed by the
same merciless cut-throats. My uncle fled; and
his estate was confiscated.

“I was then but fourteen years of age, and
just preparing to commence a collegiate course of
studies, when these afflicting events plunged us
all in ruin, reduced my father to beggary—broke
my mother's heart! Young as I was, I felt too indignant
at these unmerited sufferings to submit in
silence. I spoke my sentiments, and expressed
my hatred of the scorpions that had stung me.
With an idea of pity worthy of the base-minded
parasites of tyranny, they thought to ameliorate
the fate which they said my rashness had incurred,
and insultingly told me, that `out of a tender
regard for my extreme youth, I should only
be punished by serving for life in his majesty's
navy!' Damnable clemency! Ten thousand times
rather would I have died on the scaffold with my
brother, in the sacred cause of patriotism, than
have served one hour in their floating hells.”

“The history of your family,” observed
George, “bears a strong resemblance to that of
another, whose surviving members are now residing
in this country, in the state of Ohio.”

“I know not what became of my father, after
I was dragged from his arms; it is more than
probable that he has followed my mother to the
grave. My sister, thank Heaven, was happily
married to a man whom prudence kept neutral,
though his heart was always with the patriots. I
have not heard a syllable from them since my incarceration
on board the Majestic, and perhaps
never shall. Bowed down with misery, my father
was then but the spectre of a man—a walking
shadow; and, though offered an asylum in
the house of his son-in-law, insisted on supporting
himself by giving lessons on the harp, of
which he was a perfect master.”

“Can there be such a remarkable coincidence?”
cried George; “or is it possible that
William O'Hara effected his escape from the Macedonian
at Norfolk?”

It was now the sailor's turn to be surprised;
he stared at George some moments, and then replied—

“My name is William O'Hara, and I did escape
from the Macedonian while that frigate was
lying in Hampton Roads, previous to the war.”

“What became of your companions?”

“Two of them, I have heard, reached the
shore in safety; while another, with myself, were
picked up by the barge of the revenue-cutter,
which, owing to the darkness of the night, ran
on us before we perceived her approach. The
bargemen cordially congratulated us on our fortunate
escape, and, on reaching the cutter, furnished
us with dry clothes and snug births until
morning, when they set us on shore. Being entirely
destitute of money and clothes, we immediately
shipped on board the Neptune, which was
taking in a cargo for Bordeaux. But not liking
the captain, I procured my discharge in France,
and went on board a ship just ready to sail for
Boston, and here we arrived last week.”

“Mysterious Providence!” exclaimed George,
“who can fathom or comprehend thy wonderful
operations! How many would attribute to chance
what is thus brought about by the unseen agents
of infinite love and wisdom! Yes, my friend, had
it not been for the villainous attack on your life
and property (an event which we all so naturally
lament) and had not the scene of that outrage
been in front of this house, you might never have
met a human being to direct you to the arms of a
sister—a niece”—

“What do you tell me?”

“Your brother-in-law, Fleming, with your sister
and their daughter, now reside in Ohio, within
a mile of my father's house.”

“And my father”—

“You have supposed him dead—suppose so
still; but O fly, the moment you are able, and
comfort your poor sister, who mourns at once the
loss of father and brother. She believes you to
be dead.”

“Bountiful Heaven! accept a sailor's thanks,
that he has been shipwrecked in the very harbor
of happiness! I shall again see the most amiable
and affectionate sister that a brother could ever
boast. I will set out for Ohio as soon as I am
able to travel.”

O'Hara now pressed his questions with so much
eagerness, that he soon drew from George all the
circumstances attending his father's death.

“That is the last and most afflicting blow of
all,” he exclaimed. “Brother—mother—father
—all stabbed by England! But I will not vent my
feelings in unavailing complaints and windy
words; my arm can reach her; and English
blood shall yet bathe the hand that has been hardened
in her service. Vengeance will be sanctified
by such a cause, and vengeance shall be mine!
I will visit my sister, and then—O, my poor father,
blind and broken-hearted! the tears you
have shed shall be paid, drop for drop, in the vital
blood of your savage murderers!”

“Be calm, my friend,” interrupted George, in
a soothing tone; “revenge will not remedy the
evil, and is a passion that should ever be discarded
from the human breast.”

“Would you be calm, sir, under the load of
wrongs I have suffered? Were the savages of
your frontier to break into your father's house
and lay the whole family bleeding at your feet—
then drag you into captivity, and compel you to
wear out the years and strength of youth in odious
servitude, laboring for the very monsters that
had robbed you of liberty, home, family, and all
—would you be calm under such circumstances?
or would you not rather wreak vengeance on the
murderers, were such vengeance in your power?”

“I should probably experience a combat in
my bosom between feeling and duty,” answered
our hero; “but duty would forbid revenge. Never
should the sword be drawn from such a motive;
and I should not dare to face death in the
field of battle with such a demoniac passion in
my bosom, as to wish the death of a fellow-creature.
I wish to carry with me into the other
world as few evil desires as possible, if it were
only to disappoint those infernal spirits who
would be pleased to see me arrive, freighted with
a sufficient load to sink me down among them.
No, my friend, we ought to love our enemies, even
while duty compels us to be their executioners.”

“However I may revere the mild precepts of
religion,” replied O'Hara, “I never shall be
able to reduce this one to practice. I cannot love
the English, and it would be dastardly hypocrisy
in me to say that I do. Indeed I cannot conceive
how your theory and practice is to be reconciled
—you preach forbearance, and yet shoot your
enemies!”

“A humane surgeon,” replied George, “will
perform a dreadful operation with firmness, although
his heart may bleed for the pain which

duty compels him to inflict. Is it not genuine
mercy to destroy a few to save the many from destruction?
Is it not mercy to the public to punish
the murderer? and cannot this be done without
revenge in the breast of him whose duty it is
to inflict this punishment? It is an old maxim, (and
not the worse for being so) that `it is wise to
make choice of the least of two evils.' The degradation
of our country, the infringement of her
rights, and the enslaving or murdering of her citizens,
is a great evil; but we must either choose
to submit to this great evil, or else choose the
lesser one of drawing the sword, and, by slaying
a few, deter the rest from repeating the aggressions.
Even though one third of our own countrymen
perish in the contest, still if the two thirds
are thereby rescued from the vassalage and misery
that would otherwise have been entailed on
the whole, the sacrifice is proper. Does a parent
feel revenge in correcting a vicious son? or does
he not rather summon all his firmness to support
him in a painful duty, the performance of which
may save its object from ruin, and his family from
disgrace? Revenge forms no part of a soldier's
duty—he can chastise the enemies of his country
without it.”

“I do not comprehend the distinction,” replied
O'Hara; “and we will not disagree about
words. Were I convinced that my present feelings
towards England were wrong, I would strive
to subdue them. Yet”—

“But you might slaughter thousands of innocent
men,” interrupted George, “without ever
drawing blood from a being that has injured you,
and thus revenge would never attain its object.
Remember that the soldiery and sailors of Great

Britain are not accountable for the atrocities of
her ministers; and the very men on which you
might wreak your vengeance, would, perhaps,
have been the first to commiserate your sufferings
and denounce the authors.”

“Will not the same remark apply with equal
force to yourself?” asked the sailor. “In the
course of your professional duties, may you not
also slaughter innocent men?”

“Most undoubtedly,” answered George; “but
here lies the difference—to me that would be a
most painful duty—whereas, to one whose soul
is breathing revenge, it would yield the greatest
delight, and make him appear so much like a devil,
that the infernals might mistake him for one
of their own fraternity, should he chance to leave
the world in that horrid state. I have no objection
to your fighting the enemy if patriotism carries
you to the field; but it is for your own sake,
(not the enemy's) that I wish you to discard all
feelings of revenge.”

“Well—well—” cried O'Hara; “I will fight
them, that I am resolved upon, and I promise you
to do it from the best motives I can. In the
mean time I am grateful for your advice, and will
endeavor to believe it correct.”

George gave him his hand with a smile, and
soon after took his leave, promising to call again
the next morning.