Transcriber's Note: Clicking on the captions of the some of the illustrations will show a larger version for more detail.

[Battle of Mobile Bay—Farragut's Victory. ]

STORIES OF

OUR
NAVAL HEROES

EVERY CHILD CAN READ

EDITED BY

REV. JESSE LYMAN HURLBUT, D.D.

ILLUSTRATED
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
PHILADELPHIA

Copyright, 1908, by
The John C. Winston Co.

PREFACE

WE live in a land of heroes. If there is any one thing for which a true son of America is always ready, it is for a deed of heroism. We have among us heroes of the workshop, of the railroad, of field, forest, and city, heroes of land and heroes of water, heroes in war and heroes in peace. When the time comes for any deed of valor to be done, the American ready and able to do it will not be found wanting. It is not glory the gallant son of our land is seeking. It is to do his duty in whatever situation he is placed, whether high or low, on quarter-deck or forecastle. He does not stop to think of fame. To act bravely for his fellows or his country is the thing for him to do, and he does it in face of every peril.

The history of the United States is full of the names of heroes. They stand out like the stars on our flag. It is not our purpose to boast. The world has had its heroes in all times and countries. But our land holds a high rank among heroic nations, and deeds of gallant daring have been done by Americans which no men upon the earth have surpassed.

This book is the record of our heroes of the sea, of the men who have fought bravely upon the ocean for the honor of the Stars and Stripes, the noble tars who have carried their country's fame over all waters and through all wars. Look at Paul Jones, the most gallant sailor who ever trod deck! He was not born on our soil, but he was a true-blue American for all that. Look at Perry, rowing from ship to ship amid the rain of British shot and shell! Look at Farragut in the Civil War, facing death in the rigging that he might see the enemy! Look at Dewey in the war with Spain, on the bridge amid the hurtling Spanish shells! These are but types of our gallant sailors. They have had their equals in every war. We have hundreds to-day as brave. All they wait for is opportunity. When the time comes they will be ready.

If all our history is an inspiration, our naval history is specially so. It is full of thrilling tales, stories of desperate deeds and noble valor which no work of fiction can surpass. We are sure that all who take up this book will find it vital with interest and brimming with inspiration. Its tales deal with men who fought for their land with only a plank between them and death, and none among us can read the story of their deeds without a thrill in the nerves and a stir in the heart, and without a wish that sometime they may be able to do as much for the land that gave them birth. This is a book for the American boy to read, and the American girl as well; a book to fill them with the spirit of emulation and make them resolve that when the time comes they will act their part bravely in the perilous work of the world.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

THE FIRST SEA FIGHT OF THE REVOLUTION

The Burning of the "Gaspee" in Narragansett Bay

DOES it not seem an odd fact that little Rhode Island, the smallest of all our states, should have two capital cities, while all the others, some of which would make more than a thousand Rhode Islands, have only one apiece? It is like the old story of the dwarf beating the giants.

The tale we have to tell has to do with these two cities, Providence and Newport, whose story goes back far into the days when Rhode Island and all the others were British colonies. They were capitals then and they are capitals still. That is, they were places where the legislature met and the laws were made.

I need not tell you anything about the British Stamp Act, the Boston Tea-party, the fight at Lexington, and the other things that led to the American Revolution and brought freedom to the colonies. All this you have learned at school. But I am sure you will be interested in what we may call the "salt-water Lexington," the first fight between the British and the bold sons of the colonies.

There was at that time a heavy tax on all goods brought into the country, and even on goods taken from one American town to another. It was what we now call a revenue duty, or tariff. This tax the Americans did not like to pay. They were so angry at the way they had been treated by England that they did not want that country to have a penny of their money. Nor did they intend to pay any tax.

Do you ask how they could help paying the tax? They had one way of doing so. Vessels laden with goods were brought to the coast at night, or to places where there was no officer of the revenue. Then in all haste they unloaded their cargoes and were away again like flitting birds. The British did not see half the goods that came ashore, and lost much in the way of taxes.

We call this kind of secret trade "smuggling." Providence and Newport were great smuggling places. Over the green waters of Narragansett Bay small craft sped to and fro, coming to shore by night or in secret places and landing their goods. It was against the law, but the bold mariners cared little for laws made in England. They said that they were quite able to govern themselves, and that no people across the seas should make laws for them.

The British did their best to stop this kind of trade. They sent armed vessels to the Bay, whose business it was to chase and search every craft that might have smuggled goods in its hold, and to punish in some way every smuggler they found.

Some of these vessels made themselves very busy, and sailors and shoremen alike were bitter against them. They would bring in prizes to Newport, and their sailors would swagger about the streets, bragging of what they had done, and making sport of the Yankees. They would kidnap sailors and carry them off to serve in the King's ships. One vessel came ashore at Newport, whose crew had been months at sea, trading on the African coast. Before a man of them could set foot on land, or see any of the loved ones at home, from whom they had been parted so long, a press-gang from a British ship-of-war seized and carried off the whole crew, leaving the captain alone on his deck.

We may be sure that all this made the people very indignant. While the rest of the country was quiet, the Newporters were at the point of war. More than once they were ready to take arms against the British.

In July, 1769, a British armed sloop, the Liberty, brought in two prizes as smugglers. They had no smuggled goods on board, but the officers of the Liberty did not care for that. And their captains and crews were treated as if they were prisoners of war.

That night something new took place. The lookout on the Liberty saw two boats, crowded with men, gliding swiftly toward the sloop.

"Boat ahoy!" he shouted.

Not a word came in reply.

"Boat ahoy! Answer, or I'll fire!"

No answer still. The lookout fired. The watch came rushing up on deck. But at the same time the men in the boats climbed over the bulwarks and the sailors of the Liberty found themselves looking into the muzzles of guns. They were taken by surprise and had to yield. The Americans had captured their first prize.

Proud of their victory, the Newporters cut the cables of the sloop and let her drift ashore. Her captives were set free, her mast was cut down, and her boats were dragged through the streets to the common, where they were set on fire. A jolly bonfire they made, too, and as the flames went up the people cheered lustily.

That was not all. With the high tide the sloop floated off. But it went ashore again on Goat Island, and the next night some of the people set it on fire and it was burned to the water's edge. That was the first American reply to British tyranny. The story of it spread far and wide. The King's officers did all they could to find and punish the men who had captured the sloop, but not a man of them could be discovered. Everybody in the town knew, but no one would tell.

This was only the beginning. The great event was that of the Gaspee. This was a British schooner carrying six cannon, which cruised about the Bay between Providence and Newport, and made itself so active and so offensive that the people hated it more than all those that had gone before. Captain Duddingstone treated every vessel as if it had been a pirate, and the people were eager to give it the same dose they had given the Liberty.

Their time came in June, 1772. The Hannah, a vessel trading between New York and Providence, came in sight of the Gaspee and was ordered to stop. But Captain Linzee had a fine breeze and did not care to lose it. He kept on at full speed, and the Gaspee set out in chase.

It was a very pretty race that was seen that day over the ruffled waters of the Bay. For twenty-five miles it kept up and the Hannah was still ahead. Then the two vessels came near to Providence bar.

The Yankee captain now played the British sailors a cute trick. He slipped on over the bar as if there had been a mile of water under his keel. The Gaspee, not knowing that the Hannah had almost touched bottom, followed, and in a minute more came bump upon the ground. The proud war-vessel stuck fast in the mud, while the light-footed Yankee slid swiftly on to Providence, where the story of the chase and escape was told to eager ears.

Here was a splendid chance. The Gaspee was aground. Now was the time to repay Captain Duddingstone for his pride and insolence. That night, while the people after their day's work were standing and talking about the news, a man passed down the streets, beating a drum and calling out:

"The Gaspee is aground. Who will join in to put an end to her?"

There was no lack of volunteers. Eight large boats had been collected from the ships in the harbor, and there were soon enough to crowd them all. Sixty-four men were selected, and Abraham Whipple, who was afterward one of the first captains in the American navy, took command. Some of the men had guns, but their principal weapons were paving stones and clubs.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when this small fleet came within hail of the Gaspee. She was fast enough yet, though she was beginning to lift with the rising tide. An hour or two more might have set her afloat.

A sentinel who was pacing the deck hailed the boats when they came near.

"Who comes there?" he cried.

A shower of paving stones that rattled on the deck of the Gaspee was the only answer. Up came the captain and crew, like bees from a hive that has been disturbed.

"I want to come on board," said Captain Whipple.

"Stand off. You can't come aboard," answered Captain Duddingstone.

He fired a pistol. A shot from one of the guns on the boats replied. The British captain fell with a bullet in his side.

"I am sheriff of the County of Kent," cried one of the leaders in the boats. "I am come for the captain of this vessel. Have him I will, dead or alive. Men, to your oars!"

On came the boats, up the sides of the vessel clambered the men, over the rails they passed. The sailors showed fight, but they were soon knocked down and secured. The proud Gaspee was in the hands of the despised Yankees.

As the captors were tying the crew, a surgeon who was in the boats was called on deck.

"What do you want, Mr. Brown?" he asked.

"Don't call names, man," cried Brown. "Go into the cabin. There is a wounded man there who may bleed to death."

The surgeon was needed, for Captain Duddingstone was bleeding freely. The surgeon, finding no cloth for bandages, tore his own shirt into strips for this purpose, and soon had the bleeding stopped. The captain was gently lowered into one of the boats and rowed up to Providence.

The wounded man away, the captors began their work. Rushing through the vessel, they made havoc of furniture and trappings. There were some bottles of liquor in the captain's cabin, and some of the men made a rush for these; but the surgeon smashed them with the heels of his boots. That was not the time or place for drunken men.

This done, the Gaspee was set on fire, and was soon wrapped in flames. The men rowed their boats some distance out, and there rested on their oars, watching the flames as they shot up masts and rigging. Not until the loaded guns went off, one after another, and in the end the magazine was reached and the ship blew up, did they turn their prows towards home. Never again would the Gaspee trouble American ships.

When word of what had been done reached England, there was fury from the King down. Great rewards were offered for any one who would betray any of the party, but not a name was told. For six long months a court of inquiry sat, but it could not get evidence enough to convict a single man. The Americans were staunch and firm and stood for each other like brothers tried and true.

Not until the colonies threw off the royal yoke and were battling for freedom was the secret told. Then the men of the long-boats did not hesitate to boast of what they had done. It was the first stroke of America in the cause of liberty, and the work of the men of Providence gave new heart to the patriots from Maine to Georgia.

CHAPTER II

A BRITISH SCHOONER CAPTURED BY FARMERS IN 1775

Captain Jerry O'Brien Leads the Patriots of 1775

HOW would any of you like to go back to the days when people had only tallow candles to light their houses, and the moon to light their streets, when they traveled on horseback or by stage, and got their news only when it happened to come? In these days of the electric light, the railroad train, and the telegraph that old way of living would not seem living at all.

Yet that was the way people lived in 1775 when the Revolution began. It took weeks for news to travel then, where it takes seconds now. Thus the fight at Lexington, which began the Revolution, took place on April 19th, but it was May 9th, more than half a month later, before the news of it reached the little town of Machias, on the coast of Maine. We should hardly call that fast time. It must have taken several naps on the way.

But when the news came, it found the people ready for it. A coasting schooner put into the port and brought the story of how the patriots had fought and bled at Lexington and Concord, and of how the British were shut up in Boston town, and the country was at war. The news was received with ringing cheers.

If any of my readers had been at Machias that day I know they would have felt like striking a blow for liberty. At any rate, that is how the people of Machias felt, and it did not take them long to show it.

They had some reason not to like the King and his men. All the tall, straight trees in their woods were kept to make masts for the King's ships, and no woodman dared set axe to one of these pine trees except at risk of going to prison. Just then there were two sloops in their harbor loading with ship-timber, and an armored schooner, the Margaretta, was there as a good looker-on.

When the men on the wharf heard the story of Lexington, their eyes fell on the Margaretta. Here was a chance to let King George know what they thought about his robbing their woods.

"Keep this a secret," they said to the sailors. "Not a word of it to Captain Moore or his men. Wait till to-morrow and you will see some sport."

That night sixty of the countrymen and townsmen met at a farmhouse nearby and laid their plans. It was Saturday. On Sunday Captain Moore and his officers would go to church. Then they could gather at the wharf and might take the schooner by surprise.

But it is often easier to make a plot than to keep it a secret, and that lesson they were to learn. The captain and his officers went to the little village church at sound of the morning bell; the Margaretta lay lazily floating near the shore; and the plotters began to gather, two or three at a time strolling down towards the shore, each of them carrying some weapon.

But in some way Captain Moore discovered their purpose. What bird in the air whispered to him the secret we do not know, but he suddenly sprang to his feet, called to his officers to follow him, and leaped like a cat through the church window, without waiting to go round by the door. We may be sure the old-fashioned preacher and the pious people in the pews looked on with wide-open eyes.

Down the street like a deer sped the captain. After him came his officers. In their rear rushed the patriots, some carrying old muskets, some with scythes and reaping-hooks.

It was a hot flight and a hot chase. Luckily for Captain Moore the guard on the schooner was wide-awake. He saw the countrymen chasing his captain, and at once loaded and fired a gun, whose ball went whistling over the head of the men of Maine. This was more than they looked for; they held back in doubt; some of them sought hiding places; before they could gain fresh courage, a boat put off from the schooner and took the captain and his officers on board.

Captain Moore did not know what was wrong, but he thought he would frighten the people, at any rate. So his cannon thundered and balls came hurtling over the town. Then he drew up his anchor and sailed several miles down the bay, letting the anchor fall again near a high bank. Some of the townsmen followed, and a man named Foster called from the bank, bidding him surrender. But the captain laughed at him, raised his anchor once more, and ran farther out into the bay.

It looked as if the whole affair was at an end and the Margaretta safe. But the men of Machias were not yet at the end of their rope. There lay the lumber sloops, and where a schooner could go a sloop could follow.

Early Monday morning four young men climbed to the deck of one of the sloops and cheered in a way that soon brought a crowd to the wharf. One of these was a bold, gallant fellow named Jeremiah O'Brien.

"What is in the wind?" he asked.

"We are going for the King's ship," said Wheaton, one of the men. "We can outsail her, and all we want is guns enough and men enough to take her."

"My boys, we can do it," cried O'Brien in lusty tones, after hearing the plan.

Everybody ran off for arms, but all they could find in the town were twenty guns, with enough powder and balls to make three shots for each. Their other weapons were thirteen pitchforks and twelve axes. Jerry O'Brien was chosen captain, thirty-five of the most athletic men were selected, and the sloop put off before a fresh breeze for the first naval battle of the Revolution.

It is likely that there were a few sailors among them, and no doubt their captain knew how to handle a sloop. But the most of them were landsmen, chiefly haymakers, for Machias lay amid grassy meadows and the making of hay was its chief business. And there were some woodsmen, who knew well how to swing an axe. They were all bold men and true, who cared more for their country than for the King.

When Captain Moore saw the sloop coming with its deck crowded with men he must have wondered what all this meant. What ailed these countrymen? Anyhow, he would not fight without knowing what he was fighting for, so he raised his anchor, set his sails, and made for the open sea. But he had hardly started when, in going about in the strong wind, the main boom swung across so sharply that it struck the backstays and broke short off.

I fancy if any of us had been close by then we would have heard ringing cheers from the Yankee crew. They felt sure now of their prize, though we cannot see why, for the Margaretta had twenty-four cannon, four throwing six-pound balls and the rest one-pound balls. Muskets and pitchforks did not seem of much use against these. It had also more men than the sloop.

We cannot see why Captain Moore showed his heels instead of his fists, for he soon proved that he was no coward. But he still seemed to want to get away, so he drew up beside a schooner that lay at anchor, robbed it of its boom, lashed it to his own mast and once more took to flight. But the sloop was now not far behind, and soon showed that it was the better sailer of the two. In the end it came so close that Captain Moore was forced to fight or yield.

One of the swivel guns was fired, and then came a whole broadside, sending its balls hurtling over the crowded deck of the sloop. One man fell dead, but no other harm was done.

Only a single shot was fired back, but this came from a heavy gun and was aimed by an old hunter. It struck the man at the helm of the schooner. He fell dead, letting the rudder swing loose.

The Margaretta, with no hand at her helm, broached to, and in a minute more the sloop came crashing against her. At once there began a fierce battle between the British tars and the haymakers of Maine, who sprang wildly and with ringing cheers for the schooner's deck. Weapons of all sorts now came into play. Cutlasses, hand-grenades, pistols and boarding pikes were used by the schooner's men; muskets, pitchforks, and axes were skilfully handled by the crew of the sloop. Men fast fell dead and wounded; the decks grew red with blood; both sides fought fiercely, the men of Machias striving like tigers to gain a footing on the schooner's deck, the British tars meeting and driving them back.

Captain Moore showed that it was not fear that made him run away. He now fought bravely at the head of his men, cheering them on and hurling hand-grenades at the foe.

But in a few minutes the end came. A bullet struck the gallant captain and he fell dead on his deck. When they saw him fall the crew lost heart and drew back. The Yankees swarmed over the bulwarks. In a minute more the Margaretta was theirs.

The battle, though short, had been desperate, for twenty men lay killed and wounded, more than a fourth of the whole number engaged.

As Bunker Hill showed British soldiers that the Yankees could fight on land, so the capture of the Margaretta, the first naval victory of the Americans, showed that they could fight at sea. The Margaretta was very much the stronger, in men, in guns, and in her trained officers and skilled crew. Yet she had been taken by a party of landsmen, with muskets against cannon and pitchforks against pistols. It was a victory of which the colonists could well be proud.

But Captain O'Brien was not yet satisfied. He had now a good sloop under his feet, a good crew at his back, and the arms and ammunition of his prize. He determined to go a-privateering on his own account.

Taking the Margaretta to the town, he handed over his prisoners and put the cannon and swivels of the schooner on his swifter sloop, together with the muskets, pistols, powder, and shot which he found on board. Then away he went, with a bold and daring crew, in search for prizes and glory.

He soon found both. When the news of what he had done reached Halifax, the British there sent out two schooners, with orders to capture the insolent Yankee and bring him to port and to prison. But Captain O'Brien showed that he knew how to handle a sloop as well as a pitchfork. He met the schooners sent to capture him, and by skilful sailing managed to separate them. Then he made a bold dash on each of them and in a little time captured them both.

CHAPTER III

BENEDICT ARNOLD, THE SOLDIER-SAILOR

A Novel Fight on Lake Champlain

WAS it not a dreadful pity that Benedict Arnold should disgrace himself forever by becoming a traitor to his country? To think of his making himself the most despised of all Americans, when, if he had been true to his flag, he might have been ranked among our greatest heroes. For Arnold was one of the best and bravest fighters in Washington's army. And he could fight as hard and well on water as on land, as you will learn when you read of what he did on Lake Champlain.

I am sure all my readers must know where this lake is, and how it stretches down in a long line from Canada far into New York State. Below Lake Champlain extends Lake George, and not very far from that is the Hudson River, which flows down to the City of New York.

If the British could only have held that line of water they would have cut the colonies in two, and in that way they might soon have brought the war to an end. This was what they tried to do in the fall of 1776, but they did not count on Arnold and his men.

Let us tell what brought this about. General Arnold and General Montgomery had marched through the wilderness to Quebec in the winter before. But there they met with bitter weather and deadly disease and death from cold and cannon. The brave Montgomery was killed, the daring Arnold fought in vain, and in the end the invading army was forced to march back—all that was left of it.

As the Americans went back, Sir Guy Carleton, the British commander, followed, and made his camp at St. John's, at the north end of Lake Champlain. The nearest American post was at Crown Point, far down towards the foot of the lake. Not far south of this, near the head of Lake George, was the famous old French fort Ticonderoga, which Arnold and Ethan Allen had captured from the British the year before. I tell you all this that you may know how the land lay. A glance at a good map will help.

I think it very likely that some of you may have visited those beautiful lakes, and seen the towns and villages on their shores, the handsome dwelling on their islands, and the broad roads along their banks; everything gay and smiling.

If you had been there in 1776 you would have seen a very different sight. Look right or left, east or west, nothing but a wilderness of trees would have met your eyes. As for roads, I fancy an Indian trail would have been the best to be found. And no man that wished to keep his scalp on his head would have thought of living on island or shore.

The only good road southward was the liquid one made by nature, and this road Carleton decided to take. He would build a strong fleet and carry his army down the lake, while the Indians that came with him could paddle downward in their canoes.

At this time there was not a vessel on the lakes, but Carleton worked hard, and soon had such a fleet as these waters had never seen. Three of his ships were built in England in such a way that they could be taken to pieces, carried through the wilderness to St. John's, and there put together again. The smaller vessels were built on the spot, soldiers, sailors, and farmers all working on them.

It was well on in October before his task was finished. Then he had a fleet of twenty-five vessels in all, twenty of them being gunboats, but some of them quite large. Their crews numbered a thousand men, and they carried eighty-nine cannon.

You may well suppose that the Americans knew what was going on, and that they did not fold their hands and wait. That is not, and never was, the American way. If the British could build, so could the Yankees, and Benedict Arnold was ordered to build a fleet, and to have it ready for fighting the British when it would be needed.

Arnold had been at sea in his time and knew something of what he was about. His men were farmers who had taken up arms for their country, but he sent for a few shipbuilders from the coast and went to work with all his might.

When October came he had fifteen vessels afloat. There were two schooners and one sloop, the others being called galleys and gondolas—no better than large rowboats, with three to six guns each.

Arnold had about as many guns as Carleton, but they were smaller, and he had not nearly so many men to handle them. And his men were farmers instead of sailors, and knew no more about a cannon than about a king's crown. But the British ships were manned by picked seamen from the warships in the St. Lawrence River, and had trained naval officers.

I fear if any of us had been in Arnold's place we would have wanted to go home. It looked like folly for him and his men to fight the British fleet with its skilled officers and sailors and its heavy guns. It was like meeting a raft of logs with one of chips.

But Arnold was not a man who stopped to count the cost when fighting was to be had. As soon as he was ready he set sail boldly up the lake, and on the morning of October 11, 1776, he drew up his little fleet across a narrow channel between Valcour Island and the west shore of the lake. He knew the British would soon be down.

It was a fine, clear, cool morning, with a strong wind from the north, just the kind of day Carleton had been waiting for. So, soon after sunrise, his fleet came sweeping on past Valcour Island. But all the sailors saw was a thicket of green trees, and they had got well south of the island before they looked back and saw the American fleet.

Here was an ugly situation. It would never do to leave the Americans in their rear. Down went the helms, round swept the sails, out came the oars, and soon the British fleet was making a struggle against the wind which had seemed so fair a few minutes before. So strong was the breeze that ten o'clock had passed before they reached the channel in which the Americans lay. Arnold came eagerly to meet them, with the Royal Savage, his largest vessel, and three of his gondolas. One of these, the Congress, he had made his flagship. Soon the waters of that quiet bay rang with the roar of cannon and the shouts of fighting men, and Arnold, having drawn the fire of the whole British fleet, was obliged to hurry back.

In doing so he met with a serious loss. The Royal Savage, pierced by a dozen balls, ran ashore on the island. As she could not be got off, the crew set her on fire and escaped to the woods. They might better have leaped into the lake, for the woods were full of Indians whom Carleton had sent ashore; and to be a prisoner to Indians in those days was a terrible fate.

When he got back to his fleet, Arnold formed his line to meet the British, who came steadily on until within musket shot. Then a furious battle began, broadside meeting broadside, grape-shot and round-shot hurtling through the air, the thick smoke of the conflict drifting into the woodland, while from the forest came back flame and bullets as the Indians fought for their British friends.

Arnold, on the deck of the Congress, led in the thickest of the fight, handling his fleet as if he had been an admiral born, cheering the men at the guns, aiming and firing a gun at intervals himself, and not yielding a foot to the foe. Now and then a gun was fired at the Indians, forcing them to skip nimbly behind the trees.

For six long hours the battle kept up at close quarters. This is what Arnold says about it in few words: "At half-past twelve the engagement became general and very warm. Some of the enemy's ships and all their gondolas beat and rowed up within musket shot of us. They continued a very hot fire with round and grape-shot until five o'clock, when they thought proper to retire to about six or seven hundred yards distance, and continued the fire till dark."

Hot as their fire was, they must have found that of the Americans hotter, for they went back out of range of the Yankee guns, but kept within range of their own.

Arnold's vessels were in a bad plight. Several of them were as full of holes as a pepper bottle, and one sank soon after the fight ended. But two of the British gunboats had been sunk and one blown up. The worst for the Americans was that nearly all their powder was gone. They could not fight an hour more.

Perilous as was the situation, Admiral Arnold was equal to it. The night came on dark and stormy, with a hard gale from the north. This was just what he wanted. Up came the anchors and away went the boats, one after the other in a long line, each showing a light to the vessel that followed, but hiding it from British eyes. In this way they slipped unseen through the British line, Arnold in the Congress taking the post of danger in the rear.

When morning dawned the British lookouts gazed for the American fleet, it was nowhere to be seen. It had vanished in the night and now was ten miles down the lake, where it was drawn up near shore for repairs.

Two of the gondolas proved to be past mending, and were sunk. The others were patched up until they could be kept afloat without too much pumping, and the fleet started on, hoping to gain the shelter of Crown Point or Ticonderoga. The wind had changed to the south, and they had to take to their oars. This kept them back, but it gave the British quite as much trouble. That day passed away and the next day, Friday, dawned before the pursuers came in sight. And now a chase began with oar and sail, and continued till noon, when Crown Point was still some leagues away. By this time the British cannon balls began to reach the American boats, and the tired rowers were forced to turn to their guns and fight.

Never did sea-hero fight more gallantly than did the soldier Arnold that day. The first British broadside ruined the gondola Washington and forced it to surrender. But Arnold in the little Congress drew up beside the Inflexible, a 300-ton ship with eighteen 12-pounder cannon, and fought the ship with his little gunboat as if they had been of equal strength. Inspired by his example, the other boats fought as bravely.

Not until a third of his men were dead and his boat a mere wreck did he give up the fight. But not to surrender—no such thought came into his mind. By his order the galleys were run ashore in a creek nearby and there set on fire. With the three guns of the shattered Congress he covered their retreat until their crews were safe on shore.

Then, reckless of the British shot, he ran the Congress ashore also and stood guard at her stern while the crew set her on fire. The men by his orders sought the shore, but Arnold stood by his flag to the last, not leaving until the flames had such hold that he was sure no Briton's hand could strike his flag. It would float until it went up in flames.

Then he sprang into the water, waded ashore, and joined his men, who greeted him with cheers.

The savages were swarming in the woods, eager for scalps, but Arnold was not troubled by fear of them. Forming his men into order, he marched them through the woods, and before night reached safety at Crown Point.

Thus ended one of the noblest fights the inland waters of America ever saw. The British were victors, though at a heavy cost. Arnold had fought until his fleet was annihilated; and not in vain. Carleton sailed back to St. John's and made his way to Canada. He had seen enough of Yankee pluck. Thus Arnold, though defeated, gained by his valor the fruit of victory, for the British gave up their plan of holding the lake.

CHAPTER IV

CAPTAIN PAUL JONES

The Greatest of America's Naval Heroes

ONCE upon a time there lived in Scotland a poor gardener named John Paul, who had a little son to whom he gave the same name. The rich man's garden that the father took care of was close by the sea, and little John Paul came to love blue water so much that he spent most of his time near it, and longed to be a sailor.

He lived in his father's cottage near the sea until he was twelve years old. Then he was put to work in a big town on the other side of the Solway Firth. This town was called Whitehaven. It was a very busy place, and ships and sailors were there in such numbers that the little fellow, who had been put in a store, greatly liked to go down to the docks and talk with the seamen who had been in so many different lands and seas and who could tell him all about the wonderful and curious places they had seen, and about their adventures on the great oceans they had sailed over.

In the end the boy made up his mind to go to sea. He studied all about ships and how to sail them. He read all the books he could get, and often, when other boys were asleep or in mischief, he was learning from the books he read many things that helped him when he grew older. At last he had his wish. When he was only thirteen years old, he was put as a sailor boy on a ship called the Friendship.

The vessel was bound to Virginia, in America, for a cargo of tobacco, and the young sailor greatly enjoyed the voyage and was especially delighted with the new country across the sea. He wished he could live in America, and hoped some day to go there again.

When this first voyage was over, he returned to Whitehaven and went back to the store. But soon after, the merchant who owned the store failed in business, and the boy was out of a place and had to look out for himself. This time he became a real seaman. For many years he served as a common sailor. He proved such a good one that before he was twenty years old he was a captain. This was how he became one: While the ship in which he was sailing was in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a terrible fever broke out. The captain died. The mate, who comes next to the captain, died; all of the sailors were sick, and some of them died. There was no one who knew about sailing such a big vessel, except young John Paul. So he took command and sailed the ship into port without an accident, and the owners were so glad that they made the young sailor captain of the ship which he had saved for them.

John Paul was not the only one of his family who loved America. He had a brother who had crossed the ocean and was living in Virginia, on the banks of the Rappahannock River. This was the same river beside which George Washington lived when a boy. The young captain visited his brother several times while he was sailing on his voyages, and he liked the country so much that, when his brother died, he gave up being a sailor for a while, and went to live on his brother's farm.

When he became a farmer, he changed his name to Jones. Why he did so nobody knows. But he ever after bore the name of John Paul Jones. He made this one of the best known names in the history of the seas.

I doubt if he was a very good farmer. He was too much of a sailor for that. So, when the American Revolution began, he was eager to fight the British on the seas. There was no nation at that time so powerful on the sea as England. The King had a splendid fleet of ships of war—almost a thousand. The United States had none. But soon the Americans got together five little ships, and sent them out as the beginning of the American navy, to fight the ships of England.

John Paul Jones was made first lieutenant of a ship called the Alfred. He had the good fortune to hoist for the first time on any ship, the earliest American flag. This was a great yellow silk flag which had on it the picture of a pine tree with a rattlesnake coiled around it, and underneath were the words: "Don't tread on me!"

Then the grand union flag of the colonies was set. This had thirteen red and white stripes, like our present flag, but, instead of the stars, in the corner it had the British "union jack." Thus there was a link on the flag between the colonies and England. They had not quite cut apart.

John Paul Jones.

Jones had first been offered the command of the Providence, a brig that bore twelve guns and had a crew of one hundred men. But he showed the kind of man he was by saying that he did not know enough to be a captain, and was hardly fit to be a first lieutenant. That was how he came to be made first lieutenant of the Alfred. Congress took him at his own price.

But Commodore Hopkins, who commanded the fleet, was wise enough to see that Jones knew more about his work than most of the captains in the service. So he ordered him to take command of the Providence, the snug little brig that had first been offered to him.

The new captain was set at work to carrying troops and guarding merchant vessels along the shore, and he did this with wonderful skill. There were British men-of-war nearly everywhere, but Jones managed to keep clear of them. He darted up and down Long Island Sound, carrying soldiers and guns and food to General Washington. So well did he do his work that Congress made him a captain. This was on August 8, 1776, a month and more after the "Declaration of Independence." He had a free country now to fight for, instead of rebel colonies.

The Providence was a little vessel, but it was a fast sailer, and was wonderfully quick to answer the helm. That is, it turned very quickly when the rudder was moved. And it had a captain who knew how to sail a ship. All this brought the little brig out of more than one tight place.

I must tell you about one of these escapes, in which Captain Jones showed himself a very sharp sea-fox. He came across a fleet of vessels which he thought were merchant ships, and had a fancy he might capture the largest. But when he got close up he found that this was a big British frigate, the Solebay.

Away went the Providence at full speed, and hot-foot after her came the Solebay. For four hours the chase was kept up, the frigate steadily gaining. At last she was only a hundred yards away. Now was the time to surrender. Nearly any one but Paul Jones would have done so. A broadside from the great frigate would have torn his little brig to pieces. But he was one of the "never surrender" kind.

What else could he do? you ask. Well, I will tell you what he did. He quietly made ready to set all his extra sails, and put a man with a lighted match at each cannon, and had another ready to hoist the union flag.

Then, with a quick turn of the helm, the little brig swung round like a top across the frigate's bows. As she did so all the guns on that side sent their iron hail sweeping across the deck of the Solebay. In a minute more the studding sails were set on both sides, like broad white wings, and away went the Providence as swift as a racer, straight before the wind and with the American flag proudly flying. The officers and men of the frigate were so upset by the sudden dash and attack that they did not know what to do. Before they came to their senses the brig was out of reach of their shot. Off like a bird she went, now quite outsailing her pursuer. The Solebay, fired more than a hundred iron balls after her, but they only scared the fishes.

It was not long before Captain Jones found another big British ship on his track. He was now off the coast of Nova Scotia, and as there was nothing else to do, he let his men have a day's sport in fishing for codfish. Fish are plenty in those waters, and they were pulling them up in a lively fashion when a strange sail rose in sight.

When it came well up Captain Jones saw it was a British frigate, and judged it time to pull in his fishing lines and set sail on his little craft. Away like a deer went the brig, and after her like a hound came the ship. But it soon proved that the deer was faster than the hound, and so Captain Jones began to play with the big frigate. He took in some of his sails and kept just out of reach.

The Milford, which was the name of the British ship, kept firing at the Providence, but all her shot plunged into the waves. It was like the hound barking at the deer. And every time the Milford sent a broadside, Paul Jones replied with a musket. After he had all the fun he wanted out of the lumbering frigate, he spread all sail again and soon left her out of sight.

We cannot tell the whole story of the cruise of the Providence. In less than two months it captured sixteen vessels and burned some others. Soon after that Jones was made captain of the Alfred, the ship on which he had raised the first flag. With this he took a splendid prize, the brig Mellish, on which were ten thousand uniforms for the British soldiers. Many a ragged soldier in Washington's army thanked him that winter for a fine suit of warm clothing.

Let us tell one more fine thing that Captain Jones did in American waters before he crossed the ocean to the British seas. Sailing along the coast of Canada he came upon a fleet of coal vessels, with a British frigate to take care of them. But it was foggy and the coalers were scattered; so that Jones picked up three of them while the frigate went on with her eyes shut, not knowing that anything was wrong.

Two days afterward he came upon a British privateer, which was on the hunt for American vessels. But when the Alfred came up, before more than a few shots had been fired, down came its flag.

Captain Jones now thought it time to get home. His ship was crowded with prisoners, he was short of food and water, and he had four prizes to look after, which were manned with some of his crew.

But he was not to get home without another adventure; for, late one afternoon, there came in sight the frigate Milford, the one which he had saluted with musket balls. He could not play with her now, for he had his prizes to look after, and while he could outsail her, the prizes could not.

So he told the captains of the prizes to keep on as they were, no matter what signals he made. Night soon came, and the Alfred sailed on, with two lanterns swinging in her tops. Soon she changed her course and the Milford followed. No doubt her captain thought that the Yankee had lost his wits, to sail on with lanterns blazing and make it easy to keep in his track.

But when morning dawned the British captain found he had been tricked. The Alfred was in sight, but all the prizes were gone except the privateer, whose stupid captain had not obeyed orders. The result was that the privateer was recaptured. But the Alfred easily kept ahead. That afternoon a squall of snow came upon the sea, and the Yankee craft, "amid clouds and darkness and foaming surges, made her escape."

In a few days more the Alfred sailed into Boston. There his ship was given another captain, and for six months he had nothing to do. Congress was full of politicians who were looking out for their friends, and the best seaman in the American navy was left sitting at home biting his thumb nails and whistling for a ship.

I have not told you here the whole story of our greatest naval hero. I have not told you even the best part of his story, that part which has made him famous in all history, and put him on a level with the most celebrated sea fighters of all time.

The exploits of Paul Jones cover two seas, those of America and those of England, and in both he proved himself a brilliant sailor and a daring fighter. I think you will say this from what you have already read. His deeds of skill and bravery on our own coast were wonderful, and if they had stood alone would have given him great fame. But it was in the waters and on the shores of England that he showed the whole world what a man he was; and now, when men talk of the great heroes of the sea, the name of John Paul Jones always stands first. This is the story we have next to tell, how Captain Jones crossed the ocean and bearded the British lion in his den.

CHAPTER V

HOW PAUL JONES WON RENOWN

The First Great Fight of the American Navy

YOU have been told how Captain Paul Jones lost his ship. He was given another in June, 1777. This was the Ranger, a frigate carrying twenty-six guns, but it was such a slow old tub that our captain was not well pleased with his new craft. He did not want to run away from the British; he wanted a ship that was fit to chase an enemy.

We have one thing very interesting to tell. On the very day that Jones got his new ship Congress adopted a new flag, the American standard with its thirteen stars and thirteen stripes. As soon as he heard of the new flag, Captain Jones had one made in all haste, and with his own hands he ran it up to the mast-head of the Ranger. So she was the first ship that ever carried the "Stars and Stripes." Is it not interesting that the man who first raised the pine-tree flag of the colonies was the first to fling out to the breeze the star-spangled flag of the American Union?

Captain Jones was ordered to sail for France, but it took so long to get the Ranger ready for sea that it was winter before he reached there. Benjamin Franklin and other Americans were there in France and were having a fine new frigate built for Paul Jones. But when England heard of it such a protest was made that the French government stopped the work on the ship, and our brave captain had to go to sea again in the slow-footed Ranger.

He had one satisfaction. He sailed through the French fleet at Quiberon Bay and saluted the French flag. The French admiral could not well help returning his salute. That was the first time the Stars and Stripes were saluted by a foreign power.

What Captain Jones proposed to do was the boldest thing any American captain could do. England was invading America. He proposed to invade England. That is, he would cruise along the British coast, burning ships and towns, and thus do there what the British had done along the American coast. He wanted to let them find how they liked it themselves.

It was a daring plan. The British channel was full of war-vessels. If they got on the track of his slow ship he could not run away. He would never think of running from one ship, but there might be a fleet. However, Paul Jones was the last man in the world to think of danger; so he put boldly out to sea, and took his chances.

It was not long before he had all England in a state of alarm. News came that this daring American warship was taking prize after prize, burning some and sending their crews ashore. He would hide along the English coast from the men-of-war that went out in search, and then suddenly dart out and seize some merchant ship.

The English called Captain Jones a pirate and all sorts of hard names. But they were very much afraid of him and his stout ship. And this voyage of his, along the shores of England, taught them to respect and fear the American sailors more than they had ever done before.

After he had captured many British vessels, almost in sight of their homes, he boldly sailed to the north and into the very port of Whitehaven, where he had "tended store," as a boy, and from which he had first gone to sea. He knew all about the place. He knew how many vessels were there, and what a splendid victory he could win for the American navy, if he could sail into Whitehaven harbor and capture or destroy the two hundred vessels that were anchored within sight of the town he remembered so well.

With two rowboats and thirty men he landed at Whitehaven, locked up the soldiers in the forts, fixed the cannon so that they could not be fired, set fire to one of the vessels that were in the harbor, and so frightened all the people that, though the gardener's son stood alone on the wharf, waiting for a boat to take him off, not a man dared to lay a hand on him. With a single pistol he kept back a thousand men.

Then he sailed across the bay to the house of the great lord for whom his father had worked as a gardener. He meant to run away with this nobleman, and keep him prisoner until the British promised to treat better the Americans whom they had taken prisoners. But the lord whom he went for was "not at home," so all that Captain Jones's men could do was to carry off from the big house the silverware of the earl. Captain Jones did not like this; so he took the things from his men and returned them to Earl Selkirk, with a letter asking him to excuse his sailors.

Not long afterward one of the British men-of-war which were in the hunt for Captain Jones, found him. This was the Drake, a larger ship than the Ranger and carrying more men. But that did not trouble Paul Jones, and soon there was a terrible fight. The sails of the Drake were cut to pieces, her decks were red with blood, and at last her captain fell dead. In an hour after the fight began, just as the sun was going down behind the Irish hills, there came a cry for quarter from the Drake, and the battle was at an end. Off went Captain Jones, with his ship and his prize, for the friendly shores of France, where he was received with great praise.

Soon after this the French decided to help the Americans in their war for independence. After some time Captain Jones was put in command of five ships, and back he sailed to England to fight the British ships again.

The vessel in which he sailed was the biggest of the five ships. It had forty guns and a crew of three hundred sailors. Captain Jones thought so much of the great Dr. Benjamin Franklin, who had written a book of good advice, under the name of "Poor Richard," that he named his big ship for Dr. Franklin. He called it the Bon Homme Richard, which is French for "good man Richard." But the Bon Homme Richard was not a good boat, if it was a big one. It was old and rotten and leaky, and not fit for a warship, but its new commander made the best he could of it.

The little fleet sailed up and down the English coasts, capturing a few prizes, and greatly frightening the people by saying that they had come to burn some of the big English sea towns. Then, just as they were about sailing back to France, they came—near an English cape, called Flamborough Head—upon an English fleet of forty merchant vessels and two war ships.

One of the war ships was a great English frigate, called the Serapis, finer and stronger in every way than the Bon Homme Richard. But Captain Jones would not run away.

"What ship is that?" called out the Englishman. "Come a little nearer, and we'll tell you," answered plucky Captain Jones.

The British ships did come a little nearer. The forty merchant vessels sailed as fast as they could to the nearest harbor, and then the warships had a terrible battle.

At seven o'clock in the evening the British frigate and the Bon Homme Richard began to fight. They banged and hammered away for hours, and then, when the British captain thought he must have beaten the Americans, and it was so dark and smoky that they could only see each other by the fire flashes, he called out to the American captain: "Are you beaten? Have you hauled down your flag?"

And back came the answer of Captain John Paul Jones: "I haven't begun to fight yet!"

So they went at it again. The two ships were now lashed together, and they tore each other like savage dogs in a fight.

The rotten old Richard suffered terribly. Two of her great guns had burst at the first fire, and she was shot through and through by the Serapis until most of her timbers above the water-line were shot away. The British rushed on board with pistols and cutlasses, and the Americans drove them back. But the Richard was on fire; water was pouring in through a dozen shot holes; it looked as if she must surrender, brave as were her captain and crew. There were on board the old ship nearly two hundred prisoners who had been taken from captured vessels, and so pitiful were their cries that one of the officers set them free, thinking that the ship was going to sink and that they ought to have a chance for their lives. These men were running up on deck, adding greatly to the trouble of Captain Jones; for he had now a crowd of enemies on his own ship. But the prisoners were so scared that they did not know what to do. They saw the ship burning around them and heard the water pouring into the hold, and thought they would be carried to the bottom. So to keep them from mischief they were set to work, some at the pumps, others at putting out the fire. And to keep the ship from blowing up, if the fire should reach the magazine, Captain Jones set men at bringing up the kegs of powder and throwing them into the sea. Never was there a ship in so desperate a strait, and there was hardly a man on board, except Captain Jones, who did not want to surrender.

But the British were not having it all their own way. The American tars had climbed the masts and were firing down with muskets and flinging down hand grenades, until all the British had to run from the upper deck. A hand grenade is a small, hollow iron ball filled with powder, which explodes when thrown down and sends the bits of iron flying all around, like so many bullets.

One sailor took a bucketful of these and crept far out on the yard-arm of the ship, and began to fling them down on the gun-deck of the Serapis, where they did much damage. At last one of them went through the open hatchway to the main deck, where a crowd of men were busy working the great guns, and cartridges were lying all about and loose powder was scattered on the floor.

The grenade set fire to this powder, and in a second there was a terrible explosion. A great sheet of flame burst up through the hatchway, and frightful cries came from below. In that dreadful moment more than twenty men were killed and many more were wounded. All the guns on that deck had to be abandoned. There were no men left to work them.

Where was Captain Jones all the time, and what was he doing? You may be sure he was busy. He had taken a gun and loaded it with double-headed shot, and kept firing at the mainmast of the Serapis. Every shot cut a piece out of the mast, and after a while it came tumbling upon the deck, with all its spars and rigging. The tarred ropes quickly caught fire, and the ship was in flames.

At this moment up came the Alliance, one of Captain Jones's fleet. He now thought that the battle was at an end, but to his horror the Alliance, instead of firing at the British ship, began to pour its broadsides into his own. He called to them for God's sake to quit firing, but they kept on, killing some of his best men and making several holes under water, through which new floods poured into the ship. The Alliance had a French captain who hated Paul Jones and wanted to sink his ship.

Both ships were now in flames, and water rushed into the Richard faster than the pumps could keep it out. Some of the officers begged Captain Jones to pull down his flag and surrender, but he would not give up. He thought there was always a chance while he had a deck under his feet.

Soon the cowardly French traitor quit firing and sailed off, and Paul Jones began his old work again, firing at the Serapis as if the battle had just begun. This was more than the British captain could bear. His ship was a mere wreck and was blazing around him, so he ran on deck and pulled down his flag with his own hands. The terrible battle was at an end. The British ship had given up the fight.

Lieutenant Dale sprang on board the Serapis, went up to Captain Pearson, the British commander, and asked him if he surrendered. The Englishman replied that he had, and then he and his chief officer went aboard the battered Richard, which was sinking even in its hour of victory.

But Captain Jones stood on the deck of his sinking vessel, proud and triumphant. He had shown what an American captain and American sailors could do, even when everything was against them. The English captain gave up his sword to the American, which is the way all sailors and soldiers do when they surrender their ships or their armies.

The fight had been a brave one, and the English King knew that his captain had made a bold and desperate resistance, even if he had been whipped. So he rewarded Captain Pearson, when he at last returned to England, by making him a Knight, thus giving him the title of "Sir." When Captain Jones heard of this he laughed, and said: "Well, if I can meet Captain Pearson again in a sea fight, I'll make him a lord."

The poor Bon Homme Richard was such an utter wreck that she soon sank beneath the waves. But, even as she went down, the stars and stripes floated proudly from the mast-head, in token of victory.

Captain Jones, after the surrender, put all his men aboard the captured Serapis, and then off he sailed to the nearest friendly port, with his great prize and all his prisoners. This victory made him the greatest sailor in the whole American war, and the most famous of all American seamen.

Captain Jones took his prize into the Dutch port of Texel, closely followed by a British squadron. The country of Holland was not friendly to the Americans, and though they let him come in, he was told that he could not stay there. So he sailed again, in a howling gale, straight through the British squadron, with the American flag flying at his peak. Down through the narrow Straits of Dover he passed, coming so near the English shore that he could count the warships at anchor in the Downs. That was his way of showing how little he feared them. The English were so angry at Holland because it would not give up the Americans and their prizes that they declared war against that country.

When Captain Jones reached Paris he was received with the greatest honor, and greeted as one of the ablest and bravest of sea-fighters.

Everybody wished to see such a hero. He went to the King's court, and the King and Queen and French lords and ladies made much of him and gave him receptions, and said so many fine things about him that, if he had been at all vain, it might have "turned his head," as people say. But John Paul Jones was not vain.

He was a brave sailor, and he was in France to get help and not compliments. He wished a new ship to take the place of the old Richard, which had gone to the bottom after its great victory.

So, though the King of France honored him and received him splendidly and made him presents, he kept on working to get another ship. At last he was made captain of a new ship, called the Ariel, and sailed from France. He had a fierce battle with an English ship called the Triumph, and defeated her. But she escaped before surrendering, and Captain Jones sailed across the sea to America.

He was received at home with great honor and applause. Congress gave him a vote of thanks, "for the zeal, prudence and intrepidity with which he had supported the honor of the American flag"—that is what the vote said.

People everywhere crowded to see him, and called him hero and conqueror. Lafayette, the brave young Frenchman who came over to fight for America, called him "my dear Paul Jones," and Washington and the other leaders in America said, "Well done, Captain Jones!"

The King of France sent him a splendid reward of merit called the "Cross of Honor," and Congress set about building a fine ship for him to command. But before it was finished, the war was over; and he was sent back to France on some important business for the United States.

Here he was received with new honor, for the French knew how to meet and treat a brave man; and above all they loved a man who had humbled the English, their ancient foes. Captain Jones had sailed from a French port and in a French ship, and they looked on him almost as one of their own. But all this did not make him proud or boastful, for he was not that kind of man.

In later years Paul Jones served in Russia in the wars with the Turks. But the British officers who were in the Russian service refused to fight under him, saying that he was a rebel, a pirate, and a traitor. This was because he had fought for America after being born in Scotland. So, after some hard fighting, he left Russia and went back to France, where he died in 1792.

In all the history of sea fighting we hear of no braver man, and the United States, so long as it is a nation, will be proud of and honor the memory of the gallant sailor, John Paul Jones.

CHAPTER VI

CAPTAIN BUSHNELL SCARES THE BRITISH

The Pioneer Torpedo Boat and the Battle of the Kegs

MANY of us, all our lives, have seen vessels of every size and shape darting to and fro over the water; some with sails spread to the wind, others with puffing pipes and whirling wheels.

And that is not all. Men have tried to go under water as well as on top. Some of you may have read Jules Verne's famous story, "Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea." That, of course, is all fiction; but now-a-days there are vessels which can go miles under the water without once coming to the top.

We call these submarine boats, and look upon them as something very new. You may be surprised to learn that there was a submarine boat as long ago as the War of the Revolution. It was not a very good one, and did not do the work it was built for, but it was the first of its kind, and that is something worth knowing.

Those of you who have studied history will know that after the British were driven out of Boston they came to New York with a large army, and took possession of that city. Washington and his men could not keep them out, and had to leave. There the British lay, with their army in the city and their fleet in the bay and river, and there they stayed for years.

There was an American who did not like to see British vessels floating in American waters. He knew he could not drive them away, but he thought he might give them some trouble. This was a Connecticut man named David Bushnell, a chap as sharp as a steeltrap, and one of the first American inventors.

What Bushnell did was to invent a boat that would move under water and might be made to blow up an enemy's ship. As it was the first of this kind ever made, I am sure you will wish to know what it was like and how it was worked.

He called it The American Turtle, for it looked much like a great swimming turtle, big enough to hold a man and also to carry a torpedo loaded with 150 pounds of gunpowder. This was to be fastened to the wooden bottom of a ship and then fired off. It was expected to blow a great hole in the bottom and sink the vessel.

Of course, the boat was air-tight and water-tight, but it had a supply of fresh air that would last half an hour for one man. There was an oar for rowing and a rudder for steering. A valve in the bottom let in the water when the one-man crew wanted to sink his turtle-like boat, and there were two pumps to force the water out again when he wanted to rise.

There were windows in the top shell of the turtle, air pipes to let out the foul air and take in fresh air, small doors that could be opened when at the surface, and heavy lead ballast to keep the turtle level. In fact, the affair was, for the time, very ingenious and complete.

A very important part of it was the torpedo, with its 150 pounds of powder. This was carried outside, above the rudder. It was so made that when the boat came under a vessel the man inside could fasten it with a screw to the vessel's bottom, and row away and leave it there. Inside it was a clock, which could be set to run a certain time and then loosen a sort of gunlock. This struck a spark and set fire to the powder, and up—or down—went the vessel.

You can see that Dave Bushnell's invention was a very neat one; but, for all that, luck went against it. He first tried his machine with only two pounds of powder on a hogshead loaded with stones. The powder was set on fire, and up went the stones and the boards of the hogshead and a body of water, many feet into the air. If two pounds of powder would do all this, what would one hundred and fifty pounds do?

In 1776 the Turtle was sent out against a big British ship named the Eagle, anchored in New York Bay. The man inside rowed his boat very well under water, and after some time found himself beneath the King's ship. He now tried to fasten the torpedo to the bottom, but the screw struck an iron bar and would not go in. Then he moved to another place, but now he lost the ship altogether. He could not find her again, and he had to row away, for he could not stay much longer under water.

There is a funny story told about the man in the Turtle. He was a queer fellow named Abijah Shipman, but called by his companions "Long Bige."

As he entered the craft and was about to screw down its cover, he opened it again and asked for a chew of tobacco. All those present felt in their pockets, but none of the weed was on hand.

"You will have to go without it, old chap," said General Putnam, who was present. "We Continental officers can't afford even a plug of tobacco. To-morrow, after you have sent the Eagle on her last flight, we will try and raise you a whole keg of the weed."

"That's too bad," growled Bige. "Tell you what, Gineral, if the old Turtle don't do her duty, it's all along of me goin' out without tobacco."

After he had gone Putnam and his officers watched anxiously for results. Time passed. Morning was at hand. The Eagle rode unharmed. Evidently something had gone wrong. Had the torpedo failed, and was "Long Bige" resting in his wrecked machine on the bottom of the bay? Putnam swept the waters near the Eagle with his glass. Suddenly he exclaimed. "There he is." The top of the Turtle had just emerged, some distance from the ship.

Abijah, fearing that he might be seen, had cast off the torpedo that he might go the faster. The clock had been set to run an hour, and at the end of that time there was a thundering explosion near the fleet, hurling up great volumes of water into the air.

Soon there were signs of fright in the ships. The anchors were raised, sails were set, and off they went to safer quarters down the bay. They did not care to be too near such dangerous affairs as that.

Boats were sent out to the aid of the Turtle and it was brought ashore at a safe place. On landing Abijah gave, in his queer way, the reasons for his failure.

"It's just as I said, Gineral; it went to pot for want o' that cud of tobacco. You see, I'm mighty narvous without my tobacco. When I got under the ship's bottom, somehow the screw struck the iron bar that passes from the rudder pintle, and wouldn't hold on anyhow I could fix it. Just then I let go the oar to feel for a cud, to steady my narves, and I hadn't any. The tide swept me under her counter, and away I slipped top o' water. I couldn't manage to get back, so I pulled the lock and let the thunder-box slide. That's what comes of sailing short of supplies. Say, can you raise a cud among you now?"

Later on, after the British had taken the city of New York, two more attempts were made to blow up vessels in the river above the city. But they both failed, and in the end the British fired upon and sunk the Turtle. Bushnell's work was lost. The best he had been able to do was to give them a good scare.

But he was not yet at the end of his schemes. He next tried to blow up the Cerberus, a British frigate that lay at anchor in Long Island Sound. This time a schooner saved the frigate. A powder magazine was set afloat, but it struck the schooner, which lay at anchor near the frigate. The schooner went to pieces, but the Cerberus was saved.

The most famous of Bushnell's exploits took place at Philadelphia, after the British had taken possession and brought their ships up into the Delaware River.

One fine morning a number of kegs were seen floating down among the shipping. What they meant nobody knew. The sailors grew curious, and a boat set out from a vessel and picked one of them up. In a minute it went off, with the noise of a cannon, sinking the boat and badly hurting the man.

This filled the British with a panic. Those terrible kegs might do frightful damage. They must be some dreadful invention of the rebels. The sailors ran out their guns, great and small, and began to batter every keg they saw with cannon balls, until there was a rattle and roar as if a mighty battle was going on. Such was the famous "Battle of the Kegs."

This was more of Dave Bushnell's work. He had made and set adrift those powder kegs, fixing them so that they would explode on touching anything. But he did not understand the river and its tides. He intended to have them get among the ships at night, but it was broad day when they came down, and by that time the eddying waters had scattered them far and wide. So the powder kegs were of no more account than the torpedoes. All they did was to give the British a scare.

Philadelphia had a poet named Francis Hopkinson, who wrote a poem making fun of the British, called "The Battle of the Kegs." We give a few verses of this humorous poem:

'Twas early day, as poets say,
Just as the sun was rising;
A soldier stood on a log of wood
And saw the sun a-rising.
As in amaze he stood to gaze
(The truth can't be denied, sir),
He spied a score of kegs, or more,
Come floating down the tide, sir.
A sailor, too, in jerkin blue,
The strange appearance viewing,
First "dashed" his eyes in great surprise,
Then said: "Some mischief's brewing.
"These kegs, I'm told, the rebels hold,
Packed up like pickled herring;
And they've come down to attack the town
In this new way of ferrying."
* * * * * * * *
The cannons roar from shore to shore,
The small arms make a rattle;
Since wars began, I'm sure no man
E'er saw so strange a battle.
The fish below swam to and fro,
Attacked from every quarter.
"Why sure," thought they, "the devil's to pay
'Mong folks above the water."
From morn to night these men of might
Displayed amazing courage;
And when the sun was fairly down,
Retired to sup their porridge.
Such feats did they perform that day,
Against those wicked kegs, sir,
That years to come, if they get home,
They'll make their boasts and brags, sir.

And so it went on, verse after verse, with not much poetry in it, but a good deal of fun. The British did not enjoy it, for people did not like to be laughed at then any more than now.

CHAPTER VII

CAPTAIN BARRY AND HIS ROWBOATS WIN A VICTORY OVER THE BRITISH

A Gallant Naval Hero of Irish Blood

THE heroes of our navy were not all Americans born. More than one of them came from British soil, but a footprint on the green fields of America soon turned them into true-blue Yankees. There was John Paul Jones, the gallant Scotchman. And there was John Barry, a bold son of green Erin.

I have told you the story of Jones, the Scotchman, and now I must tell you that of Barry, the Irishman.

John Barry was a merchant captain who was made commander of the Lexington in 1776. The next year he was appointed to the Effingham, a new frigate building at Philadelphia. The British captured that city before the ship was ready for sea, and the Effingham, the Washington, and some other vessels were caught in a trap. They were taken up the river to Whitehill, above the city, and there they had to stay. Captain Barry, you may be sure, was not much pleased at this, for he was one of the men who love to be where fighting is going on.

Soon orders came from the Navy Board to sink the Effingham. This made Barry's Irish blood very hot. I fancy he said some hard things about the members of the board, and swore he would do nothing of the kind. If the British wanted the American ships let them come and take them. He had guns enough to give them some sport and was disposed to try it.

When the members of the Navy Board heard of what he said, they were very angry, and in the end he had to sink the ship and had to apologize for his strong language. But time proved that he was right and the Navy Board was wrong.

By this time Captain Barry was tired enough of being penned up, and he made up his mind by hook or crook to get out of his cage. He was burning for a fight, and thought that if he could get down the river he might give the British a taste of his mettle.

So, one dark night he set out with four boats and twenty-seven men. He rowed down the river past the ships in the stream and the soldiers on shore. Some of the soldiers saw his boats, and a few shots were fired, but they got safely past, and by daybreak were far down the broad Delaware.

Barry kept on until he reached Port Penn, down near the bay, where the Americans had a small fort. Here there was a chance for the work he wanted, for across the river he saw a large schooner flying the British flag. It was the Alert, carrying ten guns, and with it were four transports laden with food for the army at Philadelphia.

This was a fine opportunity for the bold Irish captain. It took courage to attack a strong English vessel with a few rowboats, but of courage Barry had a full supply.

The sun was up, and it was broad day when the American tars set out on their daring enterprise. The Alert had a wide-awake name, but it must have had a sleepy crew; for before the British knew there was anything wrong, Barry and his men had rowed across the stream and were clambering over the rail, cutlass and pistol in hand.

The British sailors, when they saw this "wild Irishman" and his daring tars, cutting and slashing and yelling like madmen, dropped everything and ran below in fright. All that keep them there.

In this easy fashion, twenty-eight Americans captured a British ten-gun vessel with a hundred and sixteen men on board. There had been nothing like that in all the war.

The transports had to surrender, for they were under the guns of the Alert, and Barry carried his five prizes triumphantly to Port Penn, where he handed his captives over to the garrison.

And now the daring captain made things lively for the foe. He sailed up and down the river and bay, and cut off supplies until the British army at Philadelphia began to suffer for food.

What was to be done? Should this Yankee wasp go on stinging the British lion? General Howe decided that this would never do, and sent a frigate and a sloop-of-war down the river to put an end to the trouble.

Captain Barry, finding these water-hounds sharp on his track, ran for Christiana Creek, hoping to get into shallow water where the heavy British ships could not follow. But the frigate was too fast, and chased him so closely that the best he could do was to run the schooner ashore and escape in his boats.

But he was determined that they should not have the Alert if he could help it. Turning two of the guns downward, he fired through the ship's bottom, and in a minute the water was pouring into her hold.

The frigate swung round and fired a broadside at the fleeing boats; but all it brought back was a cheer of defiance from the sailors, as they struck the land and sprang ashore. Here they had the satisfaction of seeing the schooner sink before a British foot could be set on her deck.

The war vessels now went for the transports at Port Penn. Here a battery had been built on shore, made of bales of hay. This was attacked by the sloop-of-war, but the American sharpshooters made things lively for her. They might have beaten her off had not their captain fallen with a mortal wound. The men now lost heart and fled to the woods, first setting fire to the vessels.

Thus ended Barry's brave exploit. He had lost his vessels, but the British had not got them. The Americans were proud of his daring deed, and the British tried to win so brave a man to their side. Sir William Howe offered him twenty thousand pounds in money and the command of a British frigate if he would desert his flag. But he was not dealing now with a Benedict Arnold.

"Not if you pay me the price and give me the command of the whole British fleet can you draw me away from the cause of my country," wrote the patriotic sailor.

Barry was soon rewarded for his patriotism by being made captain of an American frigate, the Raleigh. But ill-luck now followed him. He sailed from Boston on September 25, 1778, and three days afterward he had lost his ship and was a wanderer with his crew in the vast forests of Maine.