The Project Gutenberg eBook, Decatur and Somers, by Molly Elliot Seawell, Illustrated by W. Granville Smith, J. O. Davidson, George Gibbs, and F. Cresson Schell

The meeting of the two young captains.

DECATUR AND SOMERS

BY
M. ELLIOT SEAWELL
AUTHOR OF PAUL JONES, LITTLE JARVIS, MIDSHIPMAN PAULDING, CHILDREN OF DESTINY, MAID MARIAN, THROCKMORTON, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

THIRD EDITION

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1896

Copyright, 1894,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

Electrotyped and Printed
at the Appleton Press, U. S. A.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

FACING PAGE [The meeting of the two young captains.]Frontispiece W. Granville Smith [The new master’s mate.]12 W. Granville Smith [The sinking of the French privateer.]23 J. O. Davidson [The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate.]51 J. O. Davidson [The expedition to destroy the Philadelphia.]108 George Gibbs [Exploding the “infernal” at Tripoli.]165 F. Cresson Schell

DECATUR AND SOMERS.

CHAPTER I.

The blue and beautiful Delaware Bay, bathed in a faint haze, looked its loveliest, one evening about sunset, in June, 1798. The sky above was clear, and, although there was no moon, the stars were coming out brilliantly in the sky, that was of a darker blue than the water. The sun had gone down, but the west was rosy yet. The green, low-lying country around looked ineffably peaceful, and the only sound that broke the charmed silence was the rattling of the capstan as a noble frigate, lying in the stream, hove up her anchor.

Although the brief, enchanted twilight was over all the earth and sea, the graceful outlines of this lovely frigate were clearly defined against the opaline sky. She was stoutly sparred, but in such exquisite proportions that from her rail up she had the delicate beauty of a yacht. But one look at her lofty hull, and the menacing armament she carried showed that she could take care of herself in a fight, as well as run away when she had enough of it. Every rope and every spar was “ship-shape and Bristol fashion.” Her bright work shone like gold, and the rows of glistening hammocks in the nettings were as white as snow. Everything about her was painted an immaculate white, except the hull, which was a polished black. A gorgeous figure-head ornamented her keen bows, and across her stern, in great gold letters, was her name—United States. Such, indeed, was her official name, but from the day she had first kissed the water she had been nicknamed “Old Wagoner,” because of the steadiness with which she traveled. Other vessels might be delayed by vexing calms, but “Old Wagoner” was pretty sure to strike a favoring breeze that seemed specially reserved for her. And when old Boreas was in a rage, it was in vain that he poured out all the fury of his tempests upon her. She could go through a roaring gale like a stormy petrel, and come out of it without losing a sail or a spar.

A little way off from “Old Wagoner” lay a trim and handsome little sloop-of-war carrying twenty guns—the Delaware—a fit companion for the great frigate. On both ships were indications of speedy departure, and all the orderly bustle that accompanies making sail on a ship of war. The boats were all hoisted in except the first cutter, and that was being pulled rapidly through the fast-darkening water. In it was a very young lieutenant, who was afterward to distinguish himself as Commodore Stewart, and two young midshipmen, just joined, and each of the three was destined to add something to the reputation that “Old Wagoner” gained in after-years, of having been a nursery of naval heroes.

Both of these young midshipmen were about eighteen. One of them—Decatur—looked older, from his height and strength, as well as from his easy and confident address. The other one—Somers—seemed younger, because of a singularly quiet and diffident manner. The lieutenant, in the stern-sheets, engaged in steering the cutter through the mist upon the water without colliding with any of the fishing smacks with which the bay was dotted, yet found time to ask some questions of the young midshipmen, with whom he had long been well acquainted.

“I think you two have always been together, have you not?” he asked, keeping meanwhile a bright lookout.

“Yes,” answered Decatur, showing his white teeth in a smile. “We have been together ever since we were born, it seems to me. We both remember you when we were at school in Philadelphia, although you were so much older than we.”

“I recollect you both perfectly,” answered Stewart, “although you were such little fellows. Somers was the quietest fellow in the school, and you, Decatur, were the noisiest.”

“I believe you,” said Decatur, laughing. “I could have gone with my father on the Delaware,” pointing to the smart little sloop-of-war, “but I could not think of leaving Somers alone to fight it out in the steerage of the United States all by himself.”

At this Somers turned his eyes on Stewart, with a laugh in them. They were very black and soft, and full of humor, although Somers neither laughed nor talked much.

“Don’t mind Decatur, Mr. Stewart,” he said. “Captain Decatur didn’t want him on the Delaware.”

“I should think not,” replied Stewart. “I can’t imagine anything more uncomfortable than for a captain to have his own son among the junior officers. Captains, you know, have to understand what to see and what not to see. But a captain with his own son in the steerage would have to see everything.”

“Just what my father said,” added Decatur; “and, besides, he really did tell me he would like to keep Somers and me together for our first cruise, because Somers is such a steady old coach that he is fit to be the guardian of every midshipman in the navy.”

“I wish there were more like him, then,” said Stewart, with rather a grim smile, remembering what a larky set of youngsters the steerage of “Old Wagoner” harbored. “Let me give you each one piece of advice,” he added, as they drew close to the frigate’s great black hull, that loomed up darkly in the uncertain haze. “Decatur, do you be careful what you say to your messmates—Somers, do you be careful what you allow your messmates to say to you. Decatur will be too quick to take the other midshipmen up, and you, Somers, will be too slow.”

“Thank you, sir,” said both Somers and Decatur together, who appreciated Stewart’s few words of caution.

Just then the band on the poop of “Old Wagoner” burst into “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” The music rang over the darkening water with a charming sound, and the capstan rattled around at the liveliest possible rate, while the men worked, inspired by the melody. The boat was quickly brought alongside, and, just as Stewart and the two young midshipmen stepped on board, the officer of the deck called out the quick order: “Strike the bell eight! Call the watch!”

The boatswain, with his mates, had been standing ready, and as soon as eight bells struck he piped up “Attention!” and was answered by all his mates in quick succession. Then he blew a musical winding call, ending suddenly by singing out, in a rich bass, “All the watch!” This, too, was answered, every voice deeper than the other, and then the watch came tumbling up the hatchways. The wheel and chain were relieved, the officer of the deck perceived his own relief coming, and put on a cheerful smile. While all the busy commotion of relieving the watch was going on, Decatur and Somers were paying their respects to Commodore Barry, who commanded the ship—an old Revolutionary officer, handsome and seamanlike, who gloried in his beautiful ship, and was every inch a sailor.

The wind had been stealing up for some little time, and as soon as the anchor was lifted, “Old Wagoner” shook out all her plain sails and shaped her course for the open sea.

Decatur and Somers, on going below, were introduced to their messmates, Bainbridge, Spence, and others, and were shown where to sling their hammocks. Decatur directed everything in their joint arrangements, Somers quietly acquiescing—so much so that he overheard one of the midshipmen say knowingly to the others, “I think our new messmate is the sort of fellow who likes to be under the lee of the mizzenmast better than any other place on deck.” Somers did not quite take in that he was referred to, and went on very calmly stowing his traps away. Decatur did not hear the remark.

Dinner was served promptly in the steerage, and by that time “Old Wagoner” was dashing along in great style, with every sail drawing like a windlass.

At dinner the prospects of their cruise were freely discussed. The United States Government having on hand the quasi war with France, the frigate and the sloop of war were under orders to sail to the West Indies, and to clear out the great number of fleet French privateers that were playing havoc with American commerce. Each midshipman expressed the conviction that “we’ll meet some of those rattling good French frigates; and when ‘Old Wagoner’ barks up, they’ll either have to leg it faster than she can, or they’ll be chewed up—that’s certain.” Likewise all of them fully believed that they would return from the cruise covered with glory, and with a hundred thousand dollars each in prize money. The views of the older officers up in the wardroom were more conservative; but with a lot of merry, reckless young midshipmen the roseate hue always prevails.

Decatur, with his dashing manner, his fine figure, and his ready laugh, became instantly popular. Somers’s quietness was not very well understood, and before the day was out, Decatur was asked with the frankness of the steerage, if “Somers wasn’t a little—er—rather a milksop?”

“You think so?” answered Decatur, with a grin. “Very well. I’ve known Somers ever since I was born. We went to our first school together—and our last—and I tell you, for your own good, that you had better mind your p’s and q’s with that sort of a milksop.”

Everything progressed very pleasantly for the first day or two, but it was impossible that two new arrivals in the steerage could escape the “running” which, according to the code prevailing then, makes a man of a midshipman. Decatur achieved an instant popularity, so that the pranks played on him were comparatively mild, and were taken with laughing good nature. Somers was also amiable enough in regard to his “running.” In fact he was too amiable, for his messmates rather resented his want of spirit, as they mistakenly supposed. Therefore it was that, three times in one day, Somers was told that he was “too fond of the lee of the mizzenmast.”

“That means,” said Somers quietly, and looking the youngster in the face who last made the remark, “that you think I haven’t much spunk? Very well. We shall both be off duty until to-night. Couldn’t we go to some quiet place in the hold where we could have it out?”

“Fighting is strictly prohibited on board ship,” sung out Bainbridge, one of the older midshipmen, in a sarcastic voice.

“Squabbling, you mean,” chimed in another one. “That, I grant you, is unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; but when two fellows have a falling out in the steerage, why, the regulation squints exactly the other way; it means that the two fellows must have it out, like gentlemen, and no bad blood afterward.”

“Just what I think,” said Somers; “and as I hate fighting, I want to get through with all I shall have to do in that way in as short a time as possible; so I will settle with two other young gentlemen to-day against whom I have an account. Then, if I get my eye blacked, I will only have one hauling over the coals for three scrimmages.”

“You don’t mean to fight three fellows in one day?” asked Bainbridge in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Somers nonchalantly.—“Decatur, you settle the particulars,” and he walked off, as composed as ever.

“I told you fellows what a Trojan Somers was when he was started,” remarked Decatur, “and now you’ll see for yourselves. He is wiry and as strong as a buffalo, and he is first-class with his fists, and—— Well, you’ll see!”

As these little affairs were conducted strictly according to the code, they were arranged in a very business like manner. Fair play was the watchword, and all the midshipmen who were off duty assembled to see the fun. When Somers had knocked the wind out of his first adversary and brought him to apologize, it was proposed that the other affairs should be postponed; but Somers, being in for it, and the exercise rather warming his blood, invited his persecutor Number Two to “come on.” He came on, with disastrous results in the way of a good, wholesome pounding and a swelled nose. The third encounter following, Decatur begged Somers to be allowed to take his place.

“Why, I’m like Paul Jones!” cried Somers, laughing, as he sponged off his neck and head. “I haven’t begun to fight yet.”

True it was that Somers was then perfectly able to do up Number Three in fine style. As he stood astride over his opponent, who frankly acknowledged himself whipped, a mighty cheer went up from the surrounding audience of midshipmen, and every one of them, including his late opponents, came forward to shake Somers’s hand. The noise of the cheer penetrated from the hold up to the wardroom, where some of the lieutenants were sitting around. Stewart smiled significantly.

“I think I know what that means,” he said. “The fellows have been running a rig on Somers, and I predict he has come out ahead. That fellow has an indomitable spirit under that quiet outside.”

Some hours afterward, when Somers had to report on deck, he bore unmistakable marks of his encounters. His nose was considerably larger than usual, one eye had a black patch over it, and there was a bit of skin missing from his chin.

Stewart, looking at him attentively, could scarcely keep his face straight as he remarked:

“Falling down the ladder, I presume, Mr. Somers, from your appearance. You should be careful, though, not to fall down too often.”

“Yes, sir, I did fall down,” answered Somers, very diplomatically, without mentioning that, when he fell, a messmate was on top of him.

That day’s work established Somers’s popularity in the steerage, and the three midshipmen whom he had pommeled became his staunch friends. “And I’ll tell you what,” he announced, “this is the last fighting I’ll do while I am in this mess. You fellows may walk over me if you like, before I will take the trouble to lick any more of you.”

But nobody walked over him after that.

Decatur gave immediate promise of brilliancy as a seaman; but Somers was not far behind, and his uncommon steadiness recommended him highly to the lieutenants. Stewart, dining one night in the cabin with the commodore, was giving his impressions of the junior officers to the commander, who wished to appoint a master’s mate of the hold—a place always given to the most reliable and best informed of the midshipmen.

“They are all as fine a lot of youngsters, sir, as I ever saw. That young Decatur is a remarkable fellow. He finds out more than any of the rest, because he never has to ask the same thing twice. Before he had been on board a week he knew every rope and where each is belayed; and the clever youngster writes with a pencil, behind the rail, everything he is told. There’s a very good manual of seamanship written under the starboard rail, and Decatur and Somers may be seen every day, when they are not on duty, putting their heads together and studying it out.”

“And how about young Somers?” asked the commodore.

“Somers is the only one who rivals Decatur, and I must say I consider him the best-balanced young fellow of his age I ever knew. His messmates have nicknamed him ‘Old Reliable.’ He is not so brilliant a boy as Decatur, but he is steady to the utmost degree. Nothing flusters him. He is never too early, and never too late; he goes on his way quietly, and I do not think he has had a reproof since he has been on board. And he evidently studied seamanship thoroughly before he was commissioned—just what I should expect of such a long-headed fellow.”

“Then Somers shall be master’s mate of the hold,” said the commodore, decisively.

Next day Somers was sent for to the cabin and informed of the commodore’s choice. He merely said: “Thank you, sir; I shall do my best.” But Commodore Barry felt well assured that Somers’s “best” was a good “best.”

Somers went down to the midshipmen’s dinner that day, and said nothing of his appointment. Each of the reefers was eager to get the place of trust, and they began talking of it. Somers wished to tell them of his good fortune, but a kind of bashfulness restrained him. He turned red, though, and became more silent than usual. Decatur, who sat next him, looked keenly at him.

“Somers, something is up, I see; and I believe—I believe you are going to be master’s mate,” he said.

Somers blushed more than ever as he answered: “I am master’s mate. I was appointed to-day.”

Decatur, with one stretch of his powerful arm, raised his chum up standing.

“You good-for-nothing lubber, you are made master’s mate, while Bainbridge and Spence, and all the rest of us that are worth ten of you, are passed over! I’m going to prefer charges against the commodore for gross favoritism in giving you the appointment.”

Somers always submitted to this sort of horse-play from Decatur without the slightest resistance, and the effect was very comical. Decatur, after shaking him vigorously, plumped him back in his chair, when Somers calmly resumed his dinner as if nothing had occurred.

“Mr. Somers,” said Bainbridge politely—who was the oldest midshipman on board, and, as caterer of the mess, sat at the head of the table—“the officers of this mess have very grave doubts of your fitness for the place to which the unwarranted partiality of the commodore has elevated you; and we desire to form some idea of how extensive are your disqualifications. Suppose, sir, this ship were proceeding with a fair wind, under all sail except one topmast studding sail, and you were officer of the deck. Suppose again, sir, that the alarm were given, ‘Man overboard!’ and you should perceive that my dignified corporosity was the man overboard. Now, please state to me, Mr. Somers, categorically, what would be the first thing you would do in such an emergency?”

The new master’s mate.

Somers laid down his knife and fork, folded his arms and reflected for a few moments, and finally answered:

“This is what I should do, Mr. Bainbridge: I should immediately order the other topmast studding sail to be set, if she’d draw, with a view to increase the speed of the ship.”

A roar of laughter succeeded this, which was repressed by Bainbridge sternly rapping for order.

“Gentlemen, this is not the undignified cabin or the disorderly wardroom. This—please remember—is the model mess of the ship, the steerage mess, and order must be preserved, if I have to lick every one of you to get it.”

“Spence,” said Decatur, holding out his plate and trembling violently, “G-give me some of that salt horse. It may be the l-l-last time, dear Spence, that we shall ever eat salt horse together. When the discipline of this ship is so relaxed that Somers, who doesn’t know a marlin-spike from the mainmast, is promoted, it’s time we were all making our wills. Our time is short, Spence; so give me a good helping, old man.”

“I know more seamanship than all of you lubbers put together,” quietly remarked Somers, going on with his dinner.

“Hear! hear!” cried Bainbridge. “Mr. Somers, you are facetious to-day.”

Decatur, at this, got up and went to the nook that he and Somers occupied together. He came back with a black bottle labeled “Cherry bounce.”

“Gentlemen,” said he, “Mr. Somers feels so acutely your kind expressions of confidence in him, that he begs you will drink his health in this bottle of cherry bounce which he has been saving up for this auspicious occasion.”

Somers said nothing as his cherry bounce was liberally distributed, leaving only a very small glass of the dregs and heel-taps for himself; and his good nature under so much chaff made the reefers more jolly than ever. His health, with many pious wishes that he might learn to know a handy-billy when he saw it, was drunk with all honors; and as a great favor he was permitted to drink his one small glass in peace. In the midst of the jollity a commotion was heard overhead, and the cry of “Sail, ho!” In another moment every midshipman made a dash for the gangway and ran on deck.

Nearly every officer of the frigate was there too. Commodore Barry glass in hand, watched from the flying bridge, a sail off the starboard quarter. By the squareness of her yards and the symmetry of her sails she was evidently a ship of war, and was coming down fast. The Delaware, which sailed equally as well as “Old Wagoner,” was close by to starboard. On sighting the strange and menacing ship, the Delaware was seen to bear up and draw nearer her consort—for it was well known that a contest with a French ship would by no means be declined by any American ship. Commodore Barry, who was a veteran of the glorious days of Paul Jones and the gallant though infant navy of the Revolution, was more than willing to engage. Every moment showed more and more clearly the character and force of the stranger. The day was bright and cloudless, and, as they were in the sunny atmosphere of West India waters, objects could be seen at a great distance. The frigate was remarkably handsome and sailed well. The Americans counted more than twenty portholes, and very accurately guessed her to be one of the great fifty-gun frigates of which both the French and the English had many at that day. If she were French, it meant a fight; and so nearly matched were the two frigates that it would be the squarest sort of a fight.

The excitement on the ships was intense. Several of the more active officers clambered up the shrouds, while the rigging was full of men eager to make out the advancing ship, which was coming along at a good gait; and all were eager to know what colors the commodore would show.

“Mr. Ross,” said Commodore Barry, turning to his first lieutenant, “we will show French colors; if he is a ‘Mounseer,’ it will encourage him to make our acquaintance.”

The quartermaster, Danny Dixon, a handsome, fresh-faced sailor of middle age, who had served under the immortal Paul Jones, quickly produced French colors, and amid breathless silence he ran them up.

The stranger was now not more than a mile distant. She had worn no colors, but on seeing French colors run up at the American frigate’s peak, in another moment she too displayed the tricolored flag of France.

At that an involuntary cheer broke from the gallant fellows on “Old Wagoner.” Decatur, behind the commodore’s back, deliberately turned a double handspring, while even the dignified Somers executed a slight pirouette.

As for the men, they dropped down upon the deck like magic, and every man ran to his station. Commodore Barry straightened himself up, and the old fire of battle, that had slumbered since the glorious days of the Revolution, shone in his eyes under his shaggy brows.

“Mr. Ross,” said he, turning to his first lieutenant, “we are in good luck—in excellent good luck, sir. Signal to the Delaware to keep off. I think the officers and men of this ship would feel hurt if we should mar the beauty of the game we are about to play by having odds in our favor; and call the men to quarters without the tap of the drum. The first man who cheers until we have hailed will be sent below, to remain until after the engagement. I desire to come to close quarters, without telling any more about ourselves than our friend the enemy can find out.”

In the midst of a dead silence the signal was made to the Delaware. Only Decatur whispered to Somers, whose station was next his:

“Poor old dad! He’d give all his old boots if he could have a share in the scrimmage.”

The Delaware then hauled off, making a short tack, and going no farther away than she could help. The strange frigate, whose trim and ship-shape appearance grew plainer at every moment, was now nearly within hail. The American, preparing to bear up and run off as a preliminary to the action, the first lieutenant, under the commander’s eye, stood near the wheel, while Danny Dixon took the spokes.

In the midst of the breathless silence, while the strange frigate continued to advance, shortening sail meanwhile, and with her men at quarters and her batteries lighted up, Mr. Ross, watching the trim of “Old Wagoner’s” sails, sung out:

“Give her a good full, quartermaster!”

“A good full, sir,” answered old Danny steadily, and expecting the next order to be “Hard aport!”

But at that moment Commander Barry dashed his glass down with an impatient exclamation. “We are truly unfortunate, gentlemen. She is English. Look at her marines!”

At the same instant the stranger, discovering the American’s character, quickly hauled down her French colors and showed the union jack. A loud groan burst from the American sailors, who saw all their hopes of glory and prize money vanish; and it was answered by a corresponding groan from the British tars, who felt a similar disappointment, having taken the American to be a Frenchman.

Commodore Barry then ordered her to be hailed, and the first lieutenant called through the trumpet: “This is the American frigate United States, forty guns, Commodore Barry. Who are you?”

“This is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Thetis, fifty guns, Captain Langley.”

Both ships were on the same tack and going at about the same speed, about half a mile apart. Commodore Barry then hailed again, asking if the English captain had any news of two crack French frigates—L’Insurgente and La Vengeance—that were supposed to be cruising in that station. No answer was returned to this, although it was called out twice. This vexed Commodore Barry, as it did every officer and man aboard.

“Wot a pity,” growled Danny Dixon, the quartermaster, to his mates, “that somebody hadn’t ’a’ axerdentally—jist axerdentally, you know—pulled a lockstring and fired one o’ them starboard guns! The Britishers ain’t the sort to refuse a fight; they would ’a’ fired back cocksure, and we could ’a’ had a friendly tussle and found out which were the best ship, and then it could ’a’ been fixed up arterwards—’cause ’twould ’a’ been all a axerdent, you know.”

This was agreed with by all of Danny’s messmates, as they left their stations and gathered forward. The two ships were now abreast of each other, and the distance between them was being quickly decreased by Commodore Barry’s orders, who himself took the deck. They were not more than two cables’ lengths apart. The English frigate, which had taken in considerable of her canvas, now took in her royals. The American ship followed suit, so that in a little while both ships had come down to a five-knot gait, although there was a good breeze blowing. They were near enough to hear conversation and laughter on the English ship, and the men gathered on the fok’sl of the Thetis called out loudly to each other, as if to emphasize the rudeness of not returning the hails of the American ship. In the midst of a perfect silence on the United States, which was soon followed on the Thetis, Danny Dixon, who had a stentorian voice, swung himself in the forechains and began to sing as loud as he could bawl:

“Boney is a great man,

A soldier brave and true,

But the British they can lick him,

On land and water, too!”

This produced a roaring cheer from the British. The Americans, who knew what was coming next, waited, grinning broadly until the laugh should be on their side. The men gathered on the Thetis’s port side, and the officers hung over the rail to catch the next verse. As soon as the cheering was over, Danny fairly shouted, in a voice that could be heard a mile:

“But greater still, and braver far,

And tougher than shoe leather,

Was Washington, the man wot could

Have licked ’em both together!”

At this “Old Wagoner’s” deck fairly shook with the thunders of cheers from the Americans, the midshipmen joining in with leather lungs, the grave Somers yelling like a wild Indian, while Decatur executed a war-dance of triumph.

The Thetis, as if disgusted with the turn of affairs, set her royals and all her studding sails, and began to leg it at a lively pace. “Old Wagoner” followed her example, and the men sprang into the rigging and set exactly the same sails. But they found within five minutes that the American could sail better, both on and off the wind, as she followed the Thetis in her tacks. The Thetis then, keeping her luff, furled sail on the mizzen and took in royals and studding sails. The American did precisely the same thing, and, as she still sailed faster, an old sail containing kentledge was ostentatiously hung astern and acted as a drag, keeping the two ships together.

This evidently infuriated the British, but they had found out that the American could walk around the Thetis like a cooper around a cask. They did not care to test it further, and the Thetis therefore sailed sullenly along for half an hour more. The Americans were delighted, especially Commodore Barry, who handled his trumpet as gayly as if he were a midshipman on his first tour of duty as deck officer. He next ordered the topsails lowered. This brought the American down very slow indeed, and she rapidly fell astern of the Thetis. The English thought that their tormentors were now gone. The Americans, suspecting some ruse of the commodore’s, were all on the alert. Presently the commodore cried out jovially:

“Now’s the time for carrying all hard sail!” and in five minutes “Old Wagoner” seemed literally to burst into one great white cloud of canvas from truck to rail. Everything that would draw was set; and the breeze, which was every moment growing stronger, carried her along at a perfectly terrific pace. She shot past the Thetis, her gigantic spread of canvas eating the wind out of the Englishman’s sails and throwing them aback, and as she flew by another roaring cheer went up from the Americans.

The fun, however, was not over yet. Having got well in advance of the Thetis, “Old Wagoner” bore up, and, hauling her wind, dashed directly across the forefoot of the English ship as the Englishman came slowly on.

All the cheering that had preceded was as nothing when this neat manœuvre was accomplished. The old Commodore, giving the trumpet back to the officer of the deck, was greeted with three cheers and a tiger, and every officer and man on board gloried in the splendid qualities of the ship and her gallant old commander.

The brilliant visions of the midshipmen of yardarm-and-yardarm fights with French frigates, with promotion, and prize money galore, failed to materialize, although they had several sharp encounters with fleet French privateers that infested the waters of the French West Indies. With them it was a trial of seamanship, because, if ever a privateer got under the guns of “Old Wagoner,” small was her chance of escape. But the American proved to be a first-class sailer, and nothing that she chased got away from her. Several privateers were captured, but the midshipmen groaned in spirit over the absence of anything like a stand-up fight.

It did not seem likely that they would make a port for some time to come. Early in February, cruising to windward of Martinique, they ran across the French privateer Tartuffe—and Tartuffe she proved. She was a beautiful little brigantine, with six shining brass guns, and her captain evidently thought she could take care of herself; for when the United States gave chase and fired a gun from her bow-chasers, the saucy little privateer fired a gun back and took to her heels.

The sinking of the French privateer.

It was on a bright February afternoon that the chase began. The midshipmen, elated by their triumph in sailing with the great English frigate, thought it would be but child’s play to overhaul the Frenchman. But they had counted without their host, and they had no fool to play with. In vain did “Old Wagoner” crowd on sail; the Tartuffe managed to keep just out of gunshot. All the afternoon the exciting chase continued, and when night fell a splendid moon rose which made the sea almost as light as day. Both ships set every stitch of canvas that would draw, and at daybreak it was found that the frigate had in all those hours gained only a mile or two on the brigantine. However, that was enough to bring her within range of “Old Wagoner’s” batteries. The American then fired another gun as a signal for the Frenchman to haul down his colors. But, to their surprise, the Tartuffe went directly about, her yards flying round like a windmill, and her captain endeavored to run directly under the broadside of the United States before the heavier frigate could come about. One well-directed shot between wind and water stopped the Frenchman’s bold manœuvre. She began at once to fill and settle, and her ensign was hauled down.

Commodore Barry, on seeing this, cried out:

“Lower away the first cutter!” and Decatur, being the officer in charge of that boat, dropped into her stern sheets and pulled for the Frenchman. Commodore Barry, leaning over the side, called out, laughing, to Decatur:

“I wish you to treat the Frenchman as if he were the captain of a forty-four-gun frigate coming aboard to surrender her. He has made a gallant run.”

Decatur, bearing this in mind, put off for the brigantine. The sun was just rising in glory, and as he saw, in the clearness of the day, the plight of the pretty brigantine, he felt an acute pity. Her company of sixty men crowded to the rail, while her captain stood on the bridge, giving his orders as coolly as if his ship were coming to anchor in a friendly port. Decatur, seeing that his boat would be swamped if he came near enough for the men to jump in, called out to the captain, saluting him meanwhile, and asking if he would come off in one of the brigantine’s boats, while the Tartuffe’s helm could be put up, as she was still able to get alongside the United States, and her people could be transferred.

“Sairtainly, sir—sairtainly,” answered the French captain, politely, in his queer English.

In a few moments the boat containing the captain came alongside the cutter, and the Frenchman stepped aboard. He took his seat very coolly by Decatur in the stern-sheets, and then, putting a single eyeglass in his eye, he cried out, with a well-affected start of surprise: “Is zat ze American flag I see flying? And am I captured by ze Americans?”

“Yes,” answered Decatur, trying not to smile.

“But I did not know zat ze United States was at war wiz France.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Decatur. “But you found out, probably, from the American merchant vessels you captured, that France was at war with the United States.”

At that the Frenchman laughed in spite of his defeat.

“I can stand a leetle thing like this,” he said. “I have had much good luck, and when I tell my countrymen it took your cracque frigate fourteen hours to catch me—parbleu, zey will not think I have done ill.”

“You are quite right, sir,” answered Decatur. “You gave us more trouble to overhaul than a ‘cracque’ English frigate.”

The commodore and his officers all treated the brave French captain as if he had been captain of a man-of-war; and as he proved to be a pleasant, entertaining fellow, he enlivened the ship very much.

But Commodore Barry was anxious to get rid of so many prisoners, which encumbered the ship, and he determined to stand for Guadeloupe, in the hope of effecting an exchange of prisoners. He therefore entered Basseterre Roads, on a lovely morning a few days after capturing and sinking the Tartuffe. A white flag flying at the gaff showed that he was bent on a peaceful errand. Everything, however, was in readiness in case the men should have to go to quarters. Although the ports were open the guns were not run out, nor were their tompions withdrawn. The French captain, standing on the quarter-deck in his uniform, was easily recognizable.

The beautiful harbor of Guadeloupe, with its circlet of warlike forts, looked peculiarly attractive to the eyes of seamen who had been cruising for many long months. “Old Wagoner” had been newly painted, and as she stood in the Roads, under all her square canvas, she was a perfect picture of a ship. Just as they came abreast of the first fort, however, the land battery let fly, and a shower of cannon balls plowed up the water about two hundred yards from the advancing ship.

“Haul down that white flag!” thundered Commodore Barry, and Danny Dixon rushed to the halyards and dragged it down in a jiffy, and in another minute the roll of the drums, as the drummer boys marched up and down beating “quarters,” resounded through the ship. The French captain, mortified at the treacherous action of the forts, quickly drew his cap over his eyes and went below.

The United States then, with every gun manned and shotted, sailed within gunshot of the first fort that had offered the insult, and, backing her topsails, gave a broadside that sent the masonry tumbling about the ears of the garrison and dismounting several guns. This was followed up by another and another broadside, all accurately aimed, and knocking the fort considerably to pieces. Then, still under short canvas, she slowly sailed around the whole harbor, paying her compliments to every fort within gunshot, but without firing a gun into the helpless town. And when “Old Wagoner” drew off and made her way back to the open ocean, it was conceded that she had served the Frenchmen right for their unchivalrous proceeding.

The whole spring was spent in cruising, and it was the first of June when, on a Sunday morning, the ship being anchored, the boatswain and his eight mates, standing in line on the port gangway, piped up that sound so dear to every sailor’s heart, “All hands up anchor for home!” At the same moment the long red pennant, that signifies the ship is homeward bound, was joyfully hoisted at the main, and “Old Wagoner” turned her nose toward home. Just one year from the time they had left the Delaware, Decatur and Somers set foot again upon the green shore of the beautiful bay—happier, wiser, and better fellows for their year in the steerage of the fine old frigate.

CHAPTER II.

The leave enjoyed by Decatur and Somers was brief, and before the summer of 1801 was out they were forced to part. For the first time in their young lives their paths were to diverge for a short while, and to be reunited in the end. But their separation was for a reason honorable to both. Decatur was appointed first lieutenant in the frigate Essex—like most of those early ships of the American navy, destined to a splendid career. She was commanded by Captain Bainbridge, whose fate was afterward strangely linked with that of his young first lieutenant. The Essex was one of a squadron of three noble frigates ordered to the Mediterranean, under the command of Commodore Richard Dale; and this Richard Dale had been the first lieutenant of Paul Jones, the glory of the American navy, in the immortal fight between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis. The association with such a man as Commodore Dale was an inspiration to an enthusiast like Decatur; and as he found that Danny Dixon was one of the quartermasters on the Essex, it was not likely that there would be any lack of reminiscences of Paul Jones.

Somers’s appointment was to the Boston, a fine sloop-of-war carrying twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain McNeill. He was destined to many adventures before again meeting Decatur, for Captain McNeill was one of the oddities of the American navy, who, although an able seaman and a good commander, preferred to conduct his cruise according to his own ideas and in defiance of instructions from home. This Somers found out the instant he stepped upon the Boston’s deck at New York. The Essex was at New York also, and the two friends had traveled from Philadelphia together. Out in the stream lay the President, flying a commodore’s broad pennant.

“And although, ‘being grand first luffs,’ we can’t be shipmates, yet we’ll both be in the same squadron, Dick!” cried Decatur.

“True,” answered Somers, “and a Mediterranean cruise! Think of the oldsters that would like to go to Europe, instead of us youngsters!”

So their anticipations were cheerful enough, each thinking their separation but temporary, and that for three years certainly they would serve in the same squadron.

The two friends reached New York late at night, and early next morning each reported on board his ship. The Essex was a small but handsome frigate, mounting thirty-two guns, and was lying close by the Boston at the dock. As the two young lieutenants, neither of whom was more than twenty-one, came in sight of their ships, each hugged himself at the contemplation of his luck in getting so good a one. Decatur’s interview with Captain Bainbridge was pleasant, although formal. Captain Bainbridge knew Captain Decatur well, and made civil inquiries about Decatur’s family and congratulations upon James Decatur—Stephen’s younger brother—having lately received a midshipman’s appointment. Captain Bainbridge introduced him to the wardroom, and Decatur realized that at one bound he had cleared the gulf between the first place in the steerage and the ranking officer in the wardroom.

All this took but an hour or two of time, and presently Decatur found himself standing on the dock and waiting for Somers, who had left the Boston about the same time. As Somers approached, his usual somber face was smiling. Something ludicrous had evidently occurred.

“What is it?” hallooed Decatur.

Somers took Decatur’s arm before answering, and as they strolled along the busy streets near the harbor he told his story amid bursts of laughter:

“Well, I went on board, and was introduced into the captain’s cabin. There sat Captain McNeill, a red-headed old fellow, with a squint; but you can’t help knowing that he is a man of force. He talks through his nose, and what he says is like himself—very peculiar.

“‘Now, Mr. Somers,’ said he, drawling, ‘I daresay you look forward to a devil of a gay time at the Mediterranean ports, with all that squadron that Dale has got to show off with.’ I was a good deal taken aback, but I said Yes, I did. ‘Very well, sir, make up your mind that you won’t have a devil of a gay time with that squadron.’ I was still more taken aback, and, being anxious to agree with the captain, I said it didn’t make any difference; I looked for more work than play on a cruise. This didn’t seem to please the captain either, so he banged his fist down on the table, and roared: ‘No, you don’t, sir—no, you don’t! You are no doubt longing this minute to be on that ship’—pointing out of the stern port at the President—‘and to have that broad pennant waving over you. But take a good look at it, Mr. Somers—take a good long look at it, Mr. Somers, for you may not see it again!’

“You may fancy how astonished I was; but when I went down into the wardroom and talked with the officers I began to understand the old fellow. It seems he hates to be under orders. He has always managed to have an independent command, but this time the navy officials were too smart for him, and he was ordered to join Commodore Dale’s squadron. But he managed to get orders so that he could join the squadron in the Mediterranean, instead of at Hampton Roads, where the other ships are to rendezvous; and the fellows in the wardroom say they wouldn’t be surprised if they never saw the flagship from the time they leave home until they get back.”

“That will be bad for you and me, Dick,” said Decatur simply.

“Very bad,” answered Somers. Their deep affection was sparingly soluble in language, but those few words meant much.

Within a week the Boston was to sail, and one night, about nine o’clock, the wind and tide serving, she slipped down the harbor to the outer bay, whence at daylight she was to set sail on her long cruise. Decatur bade Somers good-by on the dock, just as the gang-plank was being drawn in. They had but few parting words to say to each other; their lives had been so intimate, they knew each other’s thoughts so completely, that at the last there was nothing to tell. As they stood hand in hand in the black shadow cast by the Boston’s dark hull, Decatur, whose feelings were quick, felt the tears rising to his eyes; while Somers, the calm, the self-contained, suddenly threw his arms about his friend and gave Decatur a hug and a kiss, as if his whole heart were in it; then running up the gang-plank, the next moment he was giving the orders of his responsible position in a firm tone and with perfect alertness. Decatur turned, and, going a little distance off, watched while the frigate slowly swung round and headed for the open bay, stealing off like a ghostly ship in the darkness. He felt the strongest and strangest sense of loss he had ever known in his life. He had many friends. James, his brother, who had entered the navy, was near his own age, but Somers was his other self. Unlike as they were in temperament, no two souls ever were more alike in the objects aimed at. Each had a passion for glory, and each set before himself the hope of some great achievement, and ordered his life accordingly.

This strange loneliness hung upon Decatur, and although his new duties and his new friends were many, there were certain chambers of his heart that remained closed to the whole world except Somers. He found on the Essex a modest young midshipman, Thomas Macdonough, who reminded him so much of Somers that Decatur became much attached to him. Macdonough, like Somers and Decatur, lived to make glorious history for his country.

Within a few days the Essex sailed, in company with the President, flagship, the Philadelphia, and the schooner Enterprise. This cruise was the beginning of that warfare against the pirates of Tripoli that was to win the commendation of the whole world. They made a quick passage, for a squadron, to the Mediterranean, and on a lovely July night, with the flagship leading, they passed Europa Point and stood toward the lionlike form of the Rock of Gibraltar that rose in stupendous majesty before them. A glorious moon bathed all the scene with light—the beautiful harbor, with a great line-of-battle ship, the Thunderer, flying British colors; while half a dozen fair frigates looked like sloops alongside of this warlike monster, which carried a hundred and twenty guns and a crew of nearly a thousand men.

At the extremity of the harbor lay a handsome frigate and a brig, both flying the crescent of Tripoli. The large ship also flew the pennant of an admiral. There being good anchorage between the Tripolitan and the British line-of-battle ship, Commodore Dale stood in, and the American squadron anchored between the two.

Early next morning Decatur went ashore in the first cutter, by Captain Bainbridge’s orders, to find out the state of affairs with Tripoli. He also hoped to hear something of Somers, who had sailed a week in advance. He heard startling news enough about the Barbary pirates. The flagstaff of the American legation at Tripoli had been cut down, and war was practically declared. But as the information had not reached the United States before the squadron left, the commodore was not justified in beginning hostilities until he had received formal notice of the declaration of war from the home Government. Nevertheless, the Tripolitans and the Americans watched each other grimly in the harbor. As for Somers, Decatur was bitterly disappointed not to see him. The Boston had been quietly at anchor the day before, when a clipper ship that outsailed the American squadron, which was in no particular hurry, gave notice that the ships were coming. Instantly Captain McNeill gave orders to get under way; officers were hurriedly sent ashore to collect those of the ship’s company on leave or liberty, and before nightfall the Boston was hull down going up the straits. When Decatur brought the news on board, Captain Bainbridge frowned, and laughed too.

“The commodore will have harder work to catch the Boston than anything else he is likely to give chase to,” he said.

Commodore Dale determined to await orders at Gibraltar before making a regular attack on Tripoli, but he caused it to be boldly announced by the American officers, meanwhile, that if the Tripolitans wanted to fight, all they had to do was to lift their anchors, go outside and back their topsails, and he would be ready for them.

The British naval officers, at that time, treated the American officers with studied ill-will, for they had not yet learned to look with pride upon the United States as a country made by themselves, and which Great Britain found unconquerable because its people were of the same sturdy stock as her own. The cooler heads and better hearts among the English officers at Gibraltar counseled courtesy, but among the younger men it was sometimes difficult to avoid clashes. Especially was this the case as regards Commodore Dale’s squadron, for he was connected with an episode hateful to the British, but glorious to both themselves and the Americans—the capture of the Serapis by Paul Jones. The squadron was kept in the highest state of drill and efficiency, not only as a matter of necessary precaution, but as one of professional pride and duty; and the trim American officers and the clean and orderly American seamen made a brave showing alongside of those belonging to England, the Mistress of the Seas.

One night, a week or two after their arrival, as Decatur was pacing the deck of the Essex, he heard a splash at the bow, and going forward he saw a man swimming rapidly away from the ship. Suspecting this to be a deserter, he at once had a boat lowered; and as Macdonough, Decatur’s favorite midshipman, was about swinging himself into it, Danny Dixon came up.

“Mr. Decatur,” said he, touching his cap, “that ’ere man is a deserter, sir, and he’ll be making for the Thunderer, sure. His name is John Hally, and he come from New York State, and he’s been a scamp ever since I knowed him—and that’s ten year ago. He’s a thief, and he’s stole a mort o’ things; but he ain’t been caught yet. I told him this arternoon I was agoin’ to report him for gittin’ into the men’s ditty-bags; and you see, sir, he’s showin’ us his heels.”

“Jump in the boat, then,” said Decatur. “You may help to identify him.”

The Thunderer lay about four hundred yards away, and the deserter’s course in the water was perfectly visible every foot of the distance. He evidently saw the boat following, and dived once or twice to throw his pursuers off the track. The noise made by the boat aroused the attention of the people on the Thunderer. They came to the rail peering through the darkness of the night, and presently a lantern was waved over the side. Decatur, who watched it all with interest, was convinced that this was done by order of an officer, and the object was to help the deserter from the American frigate. Sure enough, as soon as the swimmer reached the great line-of-battle ship a line was thrown him, and he was dragged bodily through an open port on the berth deck. Almost at the same moment the Essex’s boat came alongside, and young Macdonough ran up the gangway and stepped on the quarter-deck.

Captain Lockyer, who commanded the Thunderer, happened to be on deck, and to him Macdonough addressed himself. This young midshipman, like most of the gallant band of officers in the infant navy, afterward earned a name great in the history of his country. But he was always of a peculiarly gentle and even diffident manner, and his mildness, like that of Somers, was sometimes mistaken for want of spirit. It was in this instance; for when he saluted Captain Lockyer, and modestly asked that the deserter be delivered to him, he was only answered by a curt order to have the man brought on deck, adding, “Your ships, sir, are full of British subjects, and if this man is one I shall retain him.”

Macdonough flushed redly, but feeling it to be more dignified to say nothing, he held his tongue. The captain took a turn up and down the deck, without deigning any further notice of him. Macdonough, not thinking the rudeness of the captain would extend to the officers, turned to a young lieutenant, who happened to be Captain Lockyer’s son, lounging on the rail, and said:

“I am very thirsty. Will you be good enough to order me a glass of water?”

“Yonder is the scuttle-butt,” coolly responded the officer, pointing to the water-butt with its tin dipper.

Macdonough, without a word, folded his arms, and made no move toward the water-butt. The other British officers, standing about, looked rather uncomfortable at the discourtesy shown the young midshipman, but none of them attempted to repair it or to teach manners to the captain’s son. Macdonough, who not many years after captured seventeen British ensigns in one day, stood, insulted and indignant, in silence, upon the deck of the British ship.

In a few moments the deserter, who had been supplied with dry clothes, appeared on deck. As he was an able-bodied fellow, he would be very acceptable among the crew of the Thunderer, so the captain addressed him in very mild terms:

“Well, my man, are you a British or an American citizen?”

“British, sir,” responded the deserter boldly.

“This man,” said Macdonough to Captain Lockyer, “is an American citizen from the State of New York. He enlisted as an American citizen, and I can prove it by one of our quartermasters in the boat.—Here, Dixon!”

Danny Dixon, hearing his name, now appeared over the side, touching his cap politely.

“Do you not know this man, John Hally, to be an American citizen?” asked Macdonough.

“Yes, sir,” replied the quartermaster. “I’ve knowed him for ten year, and sailed two cruises with him. He’s got a family on Long Island. He ain’t no more British nor I am.”

“Perhaps you are, then,” said Captain Lockyer. “Your crews are full of British subjects.”

“No, sir,” answered Danny, very civilly. “I was born in Philadelphy, and I’ve been in the ’Merican navy ever since I were eleven year old, when I was a powder-monkey aboard o’ the Bunnum Richard, that ’ere old hulk with forty-two guns, when she licked the bran-new S’rapis, fifty guns. The Richard had Cap’n Paul Jones for a cap’n.”

Angry as Macdonough was, he could scarcely keep from laughing at Danny’s sly dig. But Captain Lockyer was furious.

“Is this the state of discipline prevailing among your crew—allowing them to harangue their superiors on the quarter-deck?” he asked cuttingly, of Macdonough.

“Captain Bainbridge, sir, of the Essex, is fully capable of maintaining discipline without any suggestion from the officers of the Thunderer,” answered Macdonough firmly, “and the question to be decided is, whether the word of the officers and men of the Essex is to be taken, or this man’s, regarding his citizenship.”

“It is the practice in the British navy to take the word of the man himself, as being most likely to know the facts in the case,” said Captain Lockyer, “and I decline to give up this man.”

True it was that such was the practice in the British navy, because it had the power to make good its high-handed measure.

“I do not feel myself qualified to deal with the question any further, then,” said Macdonough, “and I shall return on board the Essex and report to Captain Bainbridge,” and in another moment he had bowed formally and entered his boat.

When he reached the Essex, Captain Bainbridge was not on board, having gone ashore early in the evening, so Decatur was in command. Decatur’s anger knew no bounds. He stormed up and down the deck, sent a messenger off to the captain, and altogether was in just the sort of rage that an impetuous young officer would be in under like circumstances. But retaliation was nearer at hand than he imagined. While he and the other officers were collected in groups on deck, discussing the exasperating event, Danny Dixon, his face wreathed in smiles, approached.

“Mr. Decatur,” said he, unable to repress a grin of delight, “one o’ the finest-lookin’ sailor men I ever see, hearin’ ’em say on the Thunderer as how ’twas a rule to take a man’s word ’bout the country he belongs to, jist sneaked into our boat, sir, and hid hisself under the gunwale; and when we was h’istin’ the boat in, out he pops, sir, and swears he’s a ’Merican that was pressed into the British sarvice.”

Now, a man might very well have concealed himself in the boat, by the connivance of the men, without Macdonough’s seeing him, but how Danny Dixon could have avoided knowing it was a miracle. Nevertheless, he remarked solemnly:

“Didn’t a man in the boat see him, neither, sir—so they say; and, bein’ sailor men, ’tain’t likely they’d lie about it, sir.”

Decatur and Macdonough, charmed with this state of affairs, could hardly refrain from winking at one another; but Decatur only said: “Very well, Dixon; if he says he’s an American, mind, we’ll keep him.”

“He’ll say so, sir,” answered Danny, making no effort at all to suppress his enjoyment.

Good luck followed good luck. Within ten minutes the rattle of hoisting out a boat from the Thunderer was heard, and in a little while it was seen pulling across the dark water in which the stars were faintly reflected. The man’s getting into the American boat had been suspected, and his absence discovered. But no midshipman had been sent after him. Lieutenant Lockyer, the officer who had been so rude to Macdonough, and who, in spite of his bad manners, was a young officer of experience and determination, was sent in the first cutter. As soon as he stepped on deck Decatur greeted him politely, but all the other officers maintained an unbroken silence. Lockyer began at once, in a dictatorial manner:

“One of our men, sir, Moriarity by name, slipped into your boat a bit ago, and is probably on board now, and I have come to request, in Captain Lockyer’s name, that this man be delivered to me.”

Lockyer’s “request” sounded very much like “demand.”

“Certainly,” replied Decatur, with much suavity. “If the man acknowledges himself a British subject, he shall be delivered to you at once, to be punished as a deserter. But it is the rule in the American navy to take the word of the man in question respecting his citizenship, upon which he is likely to be the person best informed.”

This rule was improvised for the occasion, but Decatur was not the man to be taken at a disadvantage, and he quoted Captain Lockyer’s words to Macdonough with a sarcastic emphasis that was infuriating to the young lieutenant.

Decatur then turned to Danny Dixon and said, “Bring the man Moriarity on deck, if he is on the ship.”

Danny touched his hat, and in a few moments appeared with a young sailor, of splendid physique, but with a bright red head, and the first word he uttered was in a brogue that could be cut with a knife.

“Are you a British or an American citizen?” asked Decatur.

“Amurican, sorr,” almost shouted Moriarity. “I and all me posterity was born in Ameriky, begorra, and I niver was in ould Oireland, God bless her!”

Decatur could scarcely keep his countenance, and the other officers were all seized at the same time with coughing spells.

“Who said anything about Ireland?” asked Lieutenant Lockyer sharply. “You are as Irish as potatoes, and you were never out of Ireland in your life until you enlisted on the Thunderer.”

“Bedad, sorr, I’d be proud to be an Oirishman,” responded Moriarity with a grin. “It’s not denyin’ of it I’d be, but me mother was of a noble Italian family, in rejuced circumstances, be the name of Murphy, and me father was a Spanish gintleman be the name of Moriarirty, and I was born in Ameriky, sorr, and pressed into the Thunderer”; and, turning to Decatur, he added, “And I claims the protection of the Amurican flag.”

Lockyer was silent with rage and chagrin, but Decatur spoke up with undisturbed blandness:

“You see, sir, how this matter stands. I must take this man’s word, and you are at liberty to keep the fellow that deserted from us. Your boat waits, and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.”

Lockyer, thus practically ordered off the ship, bowed slightly and walked rapidly down the ladder and got into his boat.

Scarcely had he pushed off when Captain Bainbridge’s boat appeared, and in a few minutes he stepped on deck.

“Anything happened, Mr. Decatur?” he asked, as soon as he caught sight of his young first lieutenant.

Decatur told him briefly what had occurred. When he finished, Captain Bainbridge, who was a tall, powerful man, gave him a thwack upon the shoulder that nearly knocked him down.

“Good for you!” he cried. “You boy officers have as much sense as we oldsters. I would not take a year’s pay for what has happened this night!”

Captain Bainbridge, though, had reason to be still more proud of his boy officers in what followed concerning Moriarity. The Thunderer’s people were determined to get Moriarity back, and watched their chance for days. They knew it was impossible to get him off the Essex, and their opportunity was when the man went ashore on liberty. About two weeks after this, one bright August day, Captain Bainbridge having gone ashore on official business and Decatur being again in command, he noticed a great commotion in a British boat that was pulling off toward the Thunderer. A man was struggling in the bottom of the boat, and his loud cries and fierce efforts to free himself and jump overboard were clearly heard on the Essex. Decatur, whose eyesight was wonderfully keen, called to Macdonough, who was near him:

“Is not that voice Moriarity’s?”

“Yes,” cried Macdonough, “and he was given liberty this morning, I happen to know.”

It took Decatur but a moment to act. “Lower the second cutter!” he cried—the fastest of all the boats; “and you, Macdonough, if possible—if possible, do you hear?—reach that boat before it touches the ship, and bring me that man!”

Scarcely were the words out of Decatur’s mouth before the boat began to descend from the davits, and the boat’s crew, with Danny Dixon as coxswain, dropped in her as she touched the water. Macdonough, his dark eyes blazing, and almost wild with excitement under his calm exterior, was the first man in the boat.

“Give way, men!” he said, in a voice of suppressed agitation. “We must get that man, or never hold up our heads as long as we are at Gibraltar.”

The men gave way with a will and a cheer, and Macdonough, in the stern sheets, steered straight for the Thunderer’s boat. The British tars, realizing what was up, bent to their oars and dashed the diamond spray in showers around them. Both were about evenly matched, and the question was whether the Americans could reach the British boat before she got under the lee of the ship—and then, whether Moriarity could be recaptured. The American sailors, their oars flashing with the steadiness and precision of a machine, were gaining a little on the British boat; but it was plain, if they could intercept it at all, it would be directly under the quarter of the great line-of-battle ship. Several officers were in the Thunderer’s boat, and Macdonough recognized among them Lockyer, the insolent lieutenant. Moriarity, completely overpowered, lay handcuffed in the bows of the boat.

Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, watched the two cutters speeding across the dazzling blue of the harbor with an intensity as if his life depended on it. He had instantly chosen Macdonough to represent the Essex, and said to himself, involuntarily: “If any one can do it, it is Macdonough. He is like Somers, quiet and determined. He can’t—he sha’n’t fail!”

His excitement was shared by every officer and man on the Essex, and also on the Thunderer. Cries and cheers were heard from each ship. At last, as the two boats neared each other, Macdonough, motioning to Danny Dixon, gave him the tiller and took a place in the bow of the cutter. He spoke a word to the men, and they, as if they had reserved the strength in their brawny arms for a final effort, laid to their oars so that the boat fairly flew across the water, and in two minutes she had closed up on the bow of the British boat. As quick as a flash, Macdonough, who was a tall fellow, leaned forward, and, catching Moriarity by the waistband of his trousers, lifted him bodily into the American boat. In the suddenness of the movement not one of the dozen oars raised to strike Macdonough touched, and in another moment the Americans had sheered off, and the men were cheering wildly, while they still worked their oars sturdily. Lockyer, standing up in the British boat, shouted:

“The Thunderer will blow you out of the water for that!”

“No doubt she is fully able to do it,” cried Macdonough in reply; “but we will never give up this man as long as our ship will float!”

Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, fairly jumped with delight.

“Somers—Somers,” he cried to himself, without knowing what he was saying, “I knew that brave young Macdonough was like you!”

Cheers resounded. The American tars, gathered on the fok’sl, danced with delight. The Thunderer’s boat had made some effort to follow the American, but the latter had come about so quickly that she gained too long a lead to be overtaken, and after a few minutes her adversary sullenly put about and returned to the Thunderer. The Americans did not relax their efforts, though, and in a little while were landed on the Essex’s deck. Decatur embraced Macdonough and fairly kissed him, much to Macdonough’s embarrassment.

“You remind me of the most gallant fellow that lives—Dick Somers!” cried Decatur, “and that’s praise enough for any man. Send the armorer here to take Moriarity’s handcuffs off.”

“Av ye plaze, sorr,” said Moriarity, “maybe it ’ud be safer to keep the bracelets on, and to give me a pair o’ leg irons to decorate me legs wid; for I shall be axin’ for liberty, sure, if I’m ’lowed around, and then I’ll be captured by thim Johnny Bulls. So, av ye plaze, sorr, put me in double irons while we’re in port, and that’s the only way to kape me from gittin’ into a peck o’ trouble agin, sorr.”

“You’ll not be put in irons, but you’ll get no more liberty while you’re at Gibraltar,” answered Decatur, laughing.

“Thanky, sorr,” responded Moriarity. “If ye’ll kape to that, maybe I can do widout the double irons.”

When Captain Bainbridge came on board, Decatur eagerly told him of Macdonough’s gallant exploit, and the captain’s delight was unbounded.

“By heavens!” he chuckled, “these boy officers of mine manage to do something handsome every time I leave them to themselves. If I stayed on shore altogether, I believe they’d lick everything in sight, in one way or another!”

Several weeks had now passed, and, owing to the slowness of communication from home, no official declaration of war had reached them. The squadron cruised about the Mediterranean, giving convoy, and ready to begin active hostilities as soon as called upon. The Tripolitan pirates were still at work, whenever they dared, but the watchful energy of the American squadron kept them from doing much harm. Meanwhile the Boston was cruising over the same ground; but whenever the squadron put into port, either the Boston had just left, or she arrived just as the squadron disappeared. This was very exasperating to Commodore Dale; but as Captain NcNeill was ostensibly in hot pursuit of the squadron, and always had some plausible excuse for not falling in with it, the commodore could do nothing but leave peremptory orders behind him and in advance of him, which invariably reached Captain McNeill just a little too late or too early.

It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina, where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:

“My dear Decatur: Here we are, going aloft, with a fair wind, while I am perfectly sure that the sail reported off the starboard quarter is one of the squadron—perhaps the Essex! As you know, Captain McNeill is apparently the most anxious man imaginable to report to his commanding officer; but if Commodore Dale wins in this chase, he will be a seaman equal to Paul Jones himself. For Captain McNeill is one of the very ablest seamen in the world, and, much as his eccentricities annoy us, his management of the ship is so superb that we can’t but admire the old fellow. But I tell you privately that he has no notion of taking orders from anybody, and the commodore will never lay eyes on him during the whole cruise. Nevertheless, he is doing good service, giving convoy, and patrolling the African coast so that the Barbary corsairs are beginning to be afraid to show their noses when the Boston is about.”

Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:

“Just as I had written the last word, another sail was reported off the starboard quarter, and all of us are convinced that it is your squadron. I even think I recognize the rig of the Essex, among the four ships now visible. But old McNeill, sending his favorite lookout—an old sailor, Jack Bell, the captain of the maintop—aloft, we know very well that you will soon be hull down, and we ripping it as fast as we can leg it, on the opposite tack. Jack Bell, you must know, understands the captain’s peculiarity, and never sees anything the captain doesn’t wish to see. So he has just come down with the report that, of the four ships, not one is square enough in her rig to be a war ship, and that he thinks they are French transports! You can’t imagine with what a straight face he says this, and how infuriated we are. The captain then turns and says to us: ‘Gentlemen, this is most unfortunate. I was in hopes this was Commodore Dale’s squadron, but it is evidently not.’ And now we are bearing away due north, with every stitch of canvas set that will draw! I said that all of us are infuriated. That is not quite correct, for two or three odd fish among us have become infected with the captain’s mania, and declare that, for the credit of the thing, they don’t wish to be caught, for it is really a chase and a pursuit.

“In regard to my shipmates, I find them pleasant fellows, but still I feel, as I always shall, the loss of your companionship, my dear Decatur. Perhaps, had I a father or a mother, I should feel differently, but your parents are the persons who have treated me with the most paternal and maternal affection. As for you, we have lived so long in intimacy, that I can scarcely expect to form another such friendship, and, indeed, it would be impossible. I am glad that you are becoming fond of young Macdonough. Several of the midshipmen on this ship know him, and speak of him as a young officer of wonderful nerve and coolness. Well did you come off in your dispute with the Thunderer! I only hope that Macdonough, as young as he is, may exercise some of that restraint over you which you have always charged me with, Decatur. You are much too rash, and I wish I could convince you that there are occasions in every officer’s life when prudence is the very first and greatest virtue. Of course, you will laugh at this, and remind me of many similar warnings I have given you, but I can not help advising you; you know I have been doing that ever since we were lads together at Dame Gordon’s school. I heard a story of the great Nelson, the other day, that reminded me of you. When he was a very young child he went one day to his mother and said to her: ‘I hear people speak of “fear,” of “being afraid.” What is it? What is fear?’ The child was, indeed, father of the man in that case.”

The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate.

Here came another break, and a new date.

“I was about to close my letter, when one of our officers got a letter from a friend on the Enterprise; and as it shows how the Barbary corsairs fight, I will tell you a part of it. While running for Malta, on the 1st of August, the Enterprise came across a polacca-rigged ship, such as the Barbary corsairs usually have, with an American brig in tow. It had evidently been captured and her people sent adrift. Sterrett, who commands the Enterprise, as soon as he found the position of affairs, cleared for action, ran out his guns, and opened a brisk fire on the Tripolitan. He got into a raking position, and his broadside had a terrific effect upon the pirate. But—mark the next—three times were the Tripolitan colors hauled down, and then hoisted again as soon as the fire of the Enterprise ceased. After the third time, Sterrett played his broadside on the pirate with the determination to sink him for such treachery; but the Tripolitan rais, or captain, appeared in the waist of his ship, bending his body in token of submission, and actually threw his ensign overboard. Sterrett could not take the ship as prize, because no formal declaration of war had reached him from the United States; but he sent Midshipman Porter—you remember David Porter, who, with Rodgers, carried the French frigate L’Insurgente into port after Commodore Truxtun had captured her—aboard of the pirate, to dismantle her. He had all her guns thrown overboard, stripped her of everything except one old sail and a single spar, and let her go, with a message to the Bashaw of Tripoli that such was the way the Americans treated pirates. I understand that when the rais got to Tripoli with his one old sail, he was ridden through the town on a jackass, by order of the Bashaw, and received the bastinado; and that since then the Tripolitans are having great trouble in finding crews to man their corsair ships because of the dread of the ‘Americanos.’ One more thing—I must tell you about our red-headed captain. There was a great dinner given at Messina to the officers of a Swedish frigate and ourselves. You know how the Swedes drink! Well, Captain McNeill, in addition to his other virtues, is very abstemious. So, the night of the dinner, when the Swedish officers began to pass the decanters, Captain McNeill lay back in his chair scowling, and the next thing he was sound asleep. After he had snored about two hours, he suddenly waked up and bawled out, ‘Have those d——d Swedes got through with their guzzling and tippling yet?’ Imagine our feelings!

“Now I must tell you a piece of news almost too good to be true. I hear the Government is building four beautiful small schooners, to carry sixteen guns, for use in the Tripolitan war, which is to be pushed very actively; and that you, my dear Decatur, will command one of these vessels, and I another! I can write nothing more exhilarating after this; so, I am, as always,

“Your faithful friend, “Richard Somers.”

Many letters passed between the two friends, but they did not once meet during the whole cruise. Captain McNeill, true to his intention, never allowed himself to be overhauled by his superior officer, and at the end of two years returned to the United States without ever having seen the flagship of the squadron to which he was attached. He had done good work, though, and so the authorities winked at his odd cruise, and the brave old captain enjoyed his triumph.

CHAPTER III.

Never had the blue Mediterranean and the quaint old town of Syracuse and its fair harbor looked more beautiful than on a certain sunny September afternoon in 1803. The green shores of Sicily stretched as far as the eye could reach; the white-walled town, with its picturesque and half-ruined castle, lay in the foreground; while looming up on the farthest horizon was the shadowy cone of Etna with its crown of fire and smoke. The harbor contained a few fishing vessels, most of them with their white lateen sails furled, and motionless upon the water. A large pleasure boat, with a gay red awning, moved lazily across the “lesser harbor,” while two or three fruit-laden vessels were beating in or out of the offing under a “soldier’s wind”—that is, a wind which enables a ship to go in any direction she wishes.

But in the midst of all this placid beauty lay a war ship—the majestic Constitution—the darling frigate of her country, looking as if she commanded everything in sight. Never was there a more warlike-looking ship than Old Ironsides. Her towering hull, which was higher than the masts of most of the vessels in the sunlit harbor, was, like all American ships, painted black. In contrast to this were her polished decks, her shining masts and spars, and her snowy canvas, whose whiteness was visible although tightly clewed up. Her ports were open to admit the air, and through them could be seen a double row of wicked-looking muzzles, like the grin of a mastiff. The other vessels rocked with the tide and wind, but the great frigate seemed to lie perfectly still, as if defying both wind and tide. Her colors, too, caught some wandering puff of air, and “Old Glory” fluttered out proudly, while the other flags in sight drooped languidly. At anchor near her were two small but beautiful schooner-rigged vessels, which also flew American colors. They were precisely alike in their lines, their rig, and the small but serviceable batteries they carried. On the stern of one was gilded “Nautilus,” while on the other was “Siren.” These were indeed the gallant little vessels that Somers had written to Decatur about, and his dream was realized. He commanded the Nautilus, while Decatur commanded the Argus, a sister vessel, which was hourly expected.

The perfect quiet of the golden afternoon was broken when around the headland came sailing another small but beautiful cruiser, schooner-rigged, and wearing American colors. As soon as she had weathered the point of land, and had got fully abreast of the Constitution, her guns barked out a salute to the commodore’s pennant flying on the Constitution, which the frigate acknowledged. The schooner had a handsome figurehead, and on her stern was painted, in gold letters, “Argus.” She came to anchor in first-class man-of-war style, close under the Constitution’s quarter, and in a wonderfully short time her sails were furled, and her anchor had kissed the ground, the cable emitting sparks of fire as it rushed out of the hawse-hole. In a quarter of an hour her gig was lowered, and her young commander, Stephen Decatur, stepped into the boat and was pulled toward the Constitution. At that time neither he nor Somers was turned of twenty-four, although both were commanding officers.

As the boat shot past the Nautilus, Decatur stood up and waved his cap at the officers, but he observed that Somers was not among them. A captain’s gig, though, looking like a mere speck under the great quarter of the Constitution, made Decatur surmise that Somers was at that moment on board the flagship. The two had parted only six weeks before, when, Somers’s vessel being ready in advance of Decatur’s, he had sailed to join Commodore Preble’s squadron in the Mediterranean. The prospect of seeing Somers again raised Decatur’s naturally gay and jovial spirits to the highest pitch, and he tried to distinguish among the officers scattered about the Constitution’s decks the handsome, lithe figure of his friend. While watching the frigate as he advanced toward it, he saw another boat come alongside; an officer stepped out and ran lightly up the ladder, while the boat pulled back to the shore. Decatur was struck by the fact that this officer, who was obviously a young man, wore two epaulets. In those days only flag officers were allowed to wear two—all others wearing but one. Commodore Preble was, in fact, the only man in the whole American fleet then in European waters who was entitled to wear two epaulets. Decatur was much puzzled by the officer’s uniform, and the only explanation that occurred to him was that the gallant Preble had been superseded—an event which would have filled him with regret. Although the commodore was a stranger to him, Decatur had conceived the highest respect for his abilities, and had heard much of his vigor and enterprise, to say nothing of his untamable temper, which at first the officers chafed under, but had soon come to regard as “Old Pepper’s way,” for so the midshipmen had dubbed Commodore Preble.

The deck was full of officers, standing about enjoying the lovely afternoon, and they all watched with interest the Argus’s boat, knowing it contained Decatur. While it was still a hundred yards off Decatur recognized the figure of Somers running down the ladder, and in a few minutes Decatur literally jumped into Somers’s arms. Their affectionate way of meeting amused their shipmates very much, and even Danny Dixon, who was Decatur’s coxswain, grinned slyly at the men in the boat, and whispered, as the two young captains went up the ladder together, their arms entwined like schoolboys:

“They’re lovyers, them two be. They keeps locks o’ each other’s hair, and picters in their bosoms!”

The officers greeted Decatur warmly, among them Macdonough, now a tall young fellow of eighteen; but Decatur noticed that all of them seemed convulsed with laughter. Lieutenant Trippe, who was officer of the deck, laughed to himself as he walked up and down. A little way off, Moriarity, who was quartermaster, was standing just as near the dividing line between the quarter-deck and the forecastle as the regulations allowed, his mouth stretched from ear to ear, and even the stolid marine who stood guard at the hatchway wore a broad smile. Two or three midshipmen loitering about grinned appreciatively at each other.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this hilarity, Somers?” cried Decatur, observing a smile even on his friend’s usually grave countenance.

“Matter enough,” responded Somers, bursting out into a shout of laughter. “The commodore needed a surgeon’s mate for this ship, so he succeeded in getting a little Sicilian doctor for the place. He was entered on the ship’s books regularly under an acting appointment and ordered to prepare his uniforms and outfit and report on board this afternoon. Well, just now he came aboard, in full regalia, with cocked hat and side arms, but instead of having one epaulet, he has two; and the commodore isn’t the man to permit any equality between himself and a surgeon’s mate. The little fellow has gone below, and—ha! ha!—we are waiting for the explosion.”

There was one of the midshipmen, though, the youngest and smallest of them all, a bright-faced lad of fourteen, who laughed as much as the rest, but who looked undoubtedly a little frightened.

“Mr. Israel, there,” continued Somers, still laughing, “was the officer to whom the doctor applied for instructions about his uniforms, and we are apprehensive that the commodore may call upon Mr. Israel for an explanation.”

“I—I don’t know what I shall do,” faltered the little midshipman, “if old Pep—I mean the commodore—should ask me. I’m sure I’d never have the nerve to own up, and I certainly can’t deny that I did tell the doctor he’d look well in a cocked hat and two epaulets.”

“Never mind, Pickle,” said Macdonough, clapping the boy on the shoulder, “you’re always in mischief anyhow, so a little more or less makes no difference.—Captain Decatur, we in the steerage do our best to reform Mr. Israel, but he has a positive genius for getting into scrapes.”

“Queer thing, that, for a midshipman,” answered Decatur, with a wink. “That was the way with Captain Somers when we were midshipmen together on ‘Old Wagoner.’ If it had not been for my watchful eye and discreet judgment, he would have been in trouble all the time.”

This was so conspicuously to the contrary of the truth, that Somers did not condescend to deny it, merely remarking:

“A likely yarn, that.”

Scarcely were the words out of Somers’s mouth before a wild yell was heard from below. The next moment the unlucky Sicilian dashed out of the cabin, hotly pursued by Commodore Preble himself. The commodore was six feet high, and usually of a grave and saturnine countenance. But there was nothing grave or saturnine about him then. He had been in the act of shaving when the surgeon’s mate with the two epaulets appeared, and he had not taken time to wipe the lather off his face or to take off his dressing-gown, nor was he conscious that he was flourishing a razor in his hand. The Sicilian, seeing the razor, and appalled by the reception he had met with, had taken to his heels; and the commodore, determined to have an explanation, had followed him, bawling:

“What the devil do you mean, you lubberly apothecary, by appearing before me in that rig? Two epaulets and a cocked hat for a surgeon’s mate! I got you, sir, to pound drugs in a mortar—not to insult your superiors by getting yourself up like a commodore. I’ll have you court-martialed, sir!—no, sir; I’ll withdraw your appointment, and take the responsibility of giving you the cat for your insolence!”

The poor Sicilian darted across the deck, and, still finding the enraged commodore at his heels, suddenly sprang over the rail and struck out, swimming for the shore.

Commodore Preble walked back to where the officers stood, who had watched the scene ready to die with laughter, and shouted:

“Mr. Israel, I believe you were the midshipman, sir, that I directed that miserable little pill-maker to go to for information respecting his uniforms?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Pickle in a weak voice, the smile leaving his countenance. The others had assumed as serious an expression as they were able, but kept it with difficulty. Not so poor Pickle, who knew what it was to fall into the commodore’s hands for punishment.

“And did you, sir, have the amazing effrontery, the brazen assurance, to recommend that little popinjay to have two epaulets and a cocked hat?” roared the commodore.

“I—I didn’t recommend him, sir,” replied Pickle, looking around despairingly, and seeing Decatur, Somers, Macdonough, and all the others with their handkerchiefs to their mouths, “but he asked me if I thought two epaulets would look well on him, and I said ‘Y-yes’—and—”

“Go on, sir!” thundered the commodore.

“And then I—I told him if he had two epaulets he ought to have a cocked hat.”

“Mr. Israel,” said the commodore in a deep voice, after an awful pause, “you will go below, and remain there until I send for you!”

Poor Pickle, with a rueful countenance, turned and went below, while Decatur, advancing with Somers, managed to recover his composure enough to say:

“Commodore Preble, I have the honor of presenting myself before you; and yonder is my ship, the Argus.”

It was now the commodore’s turn to be confused. With his strict notions of naval etiquette, the idea that he should appear on the quarter-deck half shaved and in his dressing-gown was thoroughly upsetting. He mumbled some apology for his appearance, in which “that rascally apothecary” and “that little pickle of a midshipman” figured, and, asking Captain Decatur’s presence in the cabin in a few moments, disappeared. As soon as the commodore was out of hearing the officers roared with merriment.

“That’s the same old Preble,” said Decatur, laughing, “that I have heard of ever since I entered the navy.”

“Yes,” answered Somers. “At first we hated him. Now, there is not an officer in the squadron who does not like and respect him. He is a stern disciplinarian, and he has a temper like fire and tow. But he is every inch a sailor and a gentleman, and all of us will one day be proud to say, ‘I served under Preble at Tripoli!’”

“Yes,” broke in Trippe. “On the outward voyage, one very dark night, we found ourselves suddenly about half a cable’s length off from a large ship of war. We hailed her, but got no answer. After a very little of this, the commodore sent the men to quarters, had the guns run out, and took the trumpet himself. Then he shouted:

“‘This is the United States frigate Constitution, forty-four guns. This is the last time I shall hail, and if you do not answer I will give you a shot. What ship is that?—Blow your matches, boys!’

“This brought an answer, you may be sure, and a voice out of the darkness replied:

“‘If you give us a shot, we will give you a broadside! But since you are so anxious to know, this is His Britannic Majesty’s ship Donegal, razee, eighty guns!’

“‘I don’t believe you!’ bawled back old Preble; ‘and I shall stick by you until daylight to find out what you are!’

“The men gave a great cheer then, and the officers joined in—for we couldn’t help cheering a man who with a forty-four gives the lie to another man with an eighty-gun ship. In a little while, though, a boat came alongside with a very polite explanation. The ship really was the Maidstone frigate, thirty-eight guns, and the delay in answering our hails came from suspecting that we might be French, and therefore they wanted to get their people at quarters. After that we all felt differently toward ‘Old Pepper,’ as the steerage fellows call him, and we know his heart is all right if his temper is all wrong.”

The conversation then turned upon the distressing news of the loss of the frigate Philadelphia, the handsomest in the world, and the capture of all her company by the Tripolitans. While commanded by Bainbridge, Decatur’s old captain in the Essex, the Philadelphia had run upon a rock at the entrance to the harbor of Tripoli, and, literally mobbed by a Tripolitan flotilla, she was compelled to surrender. All her guns had been thrown overboard, and every effort made to scuttle her, when the Americans saw that capture was inevitable, but it was with grief and shame that the officers of the Constitution told Decatur that the ship had been raised, her guns fished up, her masts and spars refitted, and she lay under the guns of the Bashaw’s castle in the harbor, flying the piratical colors of Tripoli at her peak. If anything could add to the misery of the four hundred officers and men belonging to her, it was the sight of her, so degraded, which they could not but witness from the windows of their dungeons in the Bashaw’s castle. Her recapture had been eagerly talked over and thought over, ever since her loss; and it was a necessary step in the conquest of the piratical power of the Barbary States, for she would be a formidable enemy to any ship, even the mighty Constitution herself.

When Decatur entered the cabin, nothing could have been a greater contrast to the scene he had lately witnessed. Commodore Preble was handsomely shaved and dressed, and was a model of dignity and courtesy. He made no allusion to what had just happened, but at once began questioning Decatur as to their present and future plans.

“I have a plan, sir,” said Decatur, after a while, with a slight smile—“just formed since I have been on this ship, but nevertheless enough developed for me to ask your permission. It is, to cut out the Philadelphia as she now lies in the harbor at Tripoli. I hear that when Captain Bainbridge was compelled to haul down his flag he ordered the ship scuttled. Instead of that, though, only a few holes were bored in her bottom, and there was no difficulty in patching them and raising her.”

As Decatur spoke, some inward voice seemed to cry out to him, “Hold on to this plan, for that way lies immortality!” His dark eyes gleamed with a strange light, and he seemed to hear such words as “Glory! immortality!” thundering in his ears.

As soon as he spoke, Commodore Preble answered him quickly and firmly:

“Certainly, the ship must be destroyed, for the honor of the flag, and it will also be a measure of prudence in the coming campaign against the fleet and town of Tripoli. But as to cutting her out, that is an impossible thing.”

“I think not, sir,” answered Decatur, with equal firmness.

“You think not, Captain Decatur, because you are not yet twenty-five years old. I think to the contrary, because I am more than forty. The flag will be vindicated if the Philadelphia is destroyed, and never permitted to sail under Tripolitan colors. Anything else would be quixotic to attempt.”

“At all events,” said Decatur, “I may ask the honor of being the one to make the attempt. My father was the Philadelphia’s first commander, and if I can rescue her it will be glory enough for a lifetime.”

“No doubt all my beardless captains will ask the same thing,” answered the commodore with a grim smile; “but as you have spoken first, I shall consider you have the first claim.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Decatur, rising. “Whenever you are ready to discuss a plan I shall be gratified.” He then went on deck again.

As Decatur felt obliged to return to his ship, Somers went with him, and saying good-by to the officers on the Constitution, with the hope that the little midshipman would get off from the commodore’s wrath, the two friends were soon pulling across the placid harbor. The last rays of the sun were reflected on the water, turning it all red and gold, while in the sky a pale opaline glow still lingered.

The two friends had only been separated a few weeks, but they had much to talk about. At dinner, as they sat opposite each other in the cabin, with a hanging lamp between, Decatur, who was overflowing with spirits, noticed that Somers was more than usually grave.

“What ails you, man?” cried Decatur. “Those lantern jaws of yours have not opened with a smile since we left the flagship. Are you disappointed about anything?”

“Yes,” answered Somers, continuing his dinner with a very rueful countenance. “You will be the one to go upon the Philadelphia expedition. The rest of us will have to hang on to our anchors, while you are doing the thing we all want to do.”

“How do you know about that?” asked Decatur, with sparkling eyes and a brilliant smile.

“Oh,” answered Somers, resignedly, pushing his plate away, “I had a presentiment as soon as you went down in the commodore’s cabin. Here are the rest of us, who have been wanting to speak of this thing for weeks, and watching each other like hawks, but all afraid to beard the lion in his den; when you, with your cool impudence, just arrived, never saw the commodore in your life before, you go and plump out what you want at your first interview, and get it too. Oh, I guessed the whole business as soon as I saw you come out of the cabin!”

“You are too prudent by half, Dick,” cried Decatur, laughing at Somers’s long face. “Now, if I had taken your advice about prudence I never would have got the better of you. The commodore, too, has enough and to spare of prudence—that beggarly virtue. When I offered to go into the harbor of Tripoli with the Argus and bring the Philadelphia out, he said No, she must be destroyed, as it would be too risky to attempt to cut her out. Think of the misery of old Bainbridge and his men when they look out and see this beauty of a ship lying at the mole, with a gang of Tripolitan pirates at work on her!”

“I’ll never say a word in favor of prudence again,” groaned Somers, still thinking of his disappointment. Then began questions about their shipmates. Decatur was lucky enough to have as his first lieutenant James Lawrence, who was afterward to give the watchword to the American navy, “Don’t give up the ship!” James Decatur was also in the squadron, although not on the Argus; Decatur also had Danny Dixon as his first quartermaster; while Somers had as his quartermaster, Moriarity, who “never was in ould Ireland, God bless her!” The two young officers went on deck, where they found Danny, whom Somers went forward to greet. Danny was delighted to see him, and could not touch his cap often enough to express his respect for Somers’s new rank.